


Unhewn

by hhavenh



Category: Frozen (2013), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, F/F, F/M, Graphic Violence, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Sexual Content, incarcerated conditions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-18 23:01:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 92,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2365187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hhavenh/pseuds/hhavenh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His feet grow blistered beneath the swath of fabric he’s wrapped around them, his hands too, callouses grown from years of swordwork flayed and eroding in the frigid air. There are nicks all along his scalp, the aftermath of escaping the clutch of a gang of pale-eyed prisoners that are relentless in disallowing him his slumber. Hans doesn’t speak, hasn’t in days, just grunts and whimpers pathetically enough to convince the foremen of their superiority. He’s never felt less a prince, throwing elbows to manage his own nourishment, pulling hair and biting to manage what safety he can after the shifts. He rarely finds victory unharmed, his lip constantly split, bruises that swell and make him wonder the point of even rising from his rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat obsessed with these two. Do enjoy.

Of it all, he didn’t think the cold would bother him so much.

There are stories about it. Telling of artic desolation far off to the east. A land at the crown of the world, where grey and white stretch beyond the horizon and mountains stand as lonely peaks against a monotonous sky of cloud. There are traveler tales and books with a dozen appendixes that detail a land of ice and frost, where the ground never thaws and the only things that grow are bitter and unwholesome.

His brothers say there is no better place for him.

Those that say anything. Some don’t care, the disinterest in their eyes a wound that has been long scabbed over. Others seem excited when they see him tugged by in shackles, identical grins spreading across too similar faces. They always told him he was different, that he wasn't right. They must be pleased with the evidence that they hadn’t been incorrect.

He doesn’t see his parents.

That’s not so new though.

His brothers, those few that care, take it upon themselves to determine his penance. They don’t wait for any explanation, though he doesn’t offer any. They wouldn’t care about a witch across the sea. Two witches, actually. It’s the only explanation, another factor that he didn’t see until it was too late. One more miscalculation to top the pile.

It must be in the blood, just as is the sharp features and copper hair that he and his siblings share.

It becomes a game to his brothers so quickly, what they can do to shame him, the winner they who can make him cry and shudder the most. It hurts. Everything hurts, but it is just flesh. Just blood and tears and his voice gone hoarse when he can’t hold everything in.

Nothing goes deeper, it can’t possibly. Not when he has already long been made numb by what words they’d said and what words they hadn’t.

They tell him that he’s not their brother. That’s fine though.

Hans doesn’t remember the last time he even wanted to be.

-

He’s not to stay in the Southern Isles. He knows that, hears bits of conversation when he is visited. Which isn’t so infrequent. Hans has been back for three months now and has known more attention from his brothers than in his entire twenty-three years of life.

Sometimes the three youngest come in a herd, slapping him and dislocating his fingers. Twisting his skin and cutting him. They take his hair with painful sweeps of a dull razor. They force him to eat dirt, and come back later and kick him to the floor until he coughs up that with blood. They take his clothes and leave him tied under the pier, the sea breeze so much more biting when the sun is gone, unseasonal winter winds crossing the North Sea so often now.

Other times they bring friends. Bernhard has a woman that likes to choke Hans in the chains, breathing wet and heavy in his ear. Ryne will sit back with gleaming eyes, will just watch as two of his lads set to work with feet and fists. Hans hears of their plans in these visits, between his own gasping breaths and screams. To the labor camps, high on the eastern tundra. He wonders when they’re going to get to it. Surely there is little amusement left in attending to the punishment of House Westergard’s greatest shame.

They don’t though, not for some months more.

-

Imagination is something that has always separated Hans from his siblings.

Not only because he was forced to be his own playmate and friend as a child. He’d always had a mind for such grand stories, acted out with a toy soldier left over from one of his brothers, found when he been locked one afternoon in a closet. He’d been hero some days, sweeping away goblins with a swing of his arm, the next day a prisoner, dreaming of a magnificent rescue and galloping away through a field of rolling purple wheat in the setting sun.

Hans’ brothers have no vision, not like him. Not even Guenther, who is to be king one day. Certainly not the four other eldest who will keep holdfasts in Guenther’s name.

To maintain, the mantra passed down by queen and king. Keep secure the Southern Isles. Keep stable the Southern Isles.

No one ever thinks on how greater the Southern Isles can be.

Hans did.

Hans still does, even now. Even biting and lashing at the hands that grasp him in the darkness, having been thrown again into a cell not his when night fell.

Fingers tight now, he just has to wait it out, head tucked into his elbow so his eyes aren’t gouged. Fingernails rake his face, a furious writhing of the body beneath him, now on top of him as the woman rolls, but it doesn’t matter. Hans has won. A moment more, two, three, and the body goes slack. He waits, lungs sucking in air, knows better by now than to let there be any doubt, waits and holds.

The last beats of a wretched heart pound against his clenched fingers, and it’s done.

Hans pushes the body off him and crawls into the far corner, everything hurt and shaking. His back to the wall, head pillowed on his hands, and he’s well enough for the moment. The guards make bets, he knows, have since the first time he was thrown in another’s cell and was the only one yet breathing in the morning. They don’t hate him like his brothers do. Most don’t even remember there was a Hans in House Westergard. Sometimes those that made coin will give him a cup of clean water, or even some citrus peels to suck if he can plead and grovel as well as they expect. Hans has never had scurvy, watched out for it ruthlessly as a midshipman, but now he can feel where his back teeth are not so firm. Can see how his bruises linger for days longer than they ever did before.

But for now nothing can get him in the corner. Not until the morning. That would be enough for his brothers, had they even an ounce of the ambition that put Hans in these sunless halls. To them stability is the one state of merit. Even to the whole of the monarchy.

Not to Hans.

Stability is the appeal of those without drive. Those who never dream of a country so prosperous and grand that there are only paupers through laziness, not for lack of economic opportunity. Of treaties that form trade routes all the way to the Far East, where it is said dragons fly higher than clouds. No thought is ever given to controlling the North Sea such that there may never be another plundered merchant vessel, never a sacked village that could have been saved were the Southern Isles’ navy not a mockery of the name.

Hans has thought it all a hundred times over, has imagined a hundred times more how grand his own kingdom would be.

How grand it will be.

-

The language of the caravan is largely incomprehensible. Some words are of a shared enough meaning that Hans can manage, or the intent is so violently clear that there can be no miscommunication. The winds writhe between he and his fellow marchers, and freeze him to his very bone when he is pressed to the outside. A patrolman will come along often, his arrival hearkened by the heavy trod of his winter-dressed horse and the fierce snap of a whip that Hans is helpless not to flinch from.

Food is as foreign to him as warmth. His only water the snow he can melt in his mouth, hydration at the price of a constant frigidness to his teeth and gums. If it is not a whip slicing his flesh then it is fists bludgeoning him, sharp nails that flay his cheek when he accidently steps down upon a grandmother’s heel. The skies are nevermore blue, but a mottled mass of rolling grey clouds, even the moon little seen. Greenlands become dirt, and dirt into stone, the great rise of mountains on either side startling him when Hans has the presence of mind one day to look beyond the slow plod of his own feet.

They walk and walk, forever onward, an endless ascension. Hans’ lungs grow tight, a burning cough watering his eyes every morning after he wakes, bitter winds chapping his lips and weaseling beneath his pathetic layers. A girl tries running when they reach the height of the peaks, her scream short when the patroller gallops after, the whip snaking around her neck and breaking it on the back snap. The least violent death Hans has seen on this march, and the last, as their destination rises out of the great white flatness that must be Siberia.

The settlement is easy to miss, the squat buildings covered in sheets of ice and snow, blending into the monotonous paleness of the tundra without disruption. Walking masses of cloth dot the paleness as they come closer. Must be prisoners, for the foremen share nothing in likeness, their coats long and thick, fur bunched over ears and hands. At least the one to greet them is, her voice sharp and echoing across the hard packed snow.

-

There is no nourishment, not to those fresh from the caravan. Not until the first day of work is done. Hans understands the rationale. They’ve not earned their meals yet, and there is little profitability in feeding those that may not survive the first shift. There’s a system of role taking every morning, each present prisoner recorded before they march to a forest that Hans cannot even see from the settlement. The record is the only thing that allows them sustenance when they return, a mammoth list the cooks slowly and diligently abide by.

Shelter is its own struggle. Hans stops trying to find room in the rows of communal shanties after the third day that he’s assaulted whilst asleep. He lost his shoes the first night, his rice allowance taken the second. He wakes to hands in his hair on the third, a blade shining in candlelight as children try to hold him still.

Solitude is the only state of safety, the only time when he can insist to himself that this place is only temporary. He manages it so inoften though. Either he is forced against others as he heaves on ropes or pressed among them on the cook’s porch to keep fed, the constant jostle of others a terror.

It becomes routine. Marching to the forest, marching back, making an attempt for rice that may or mayn’t be cooked, eating it out of his palm like a mad animal before someone takes it. He learns how to fight on his back, how to toss his feet to upset his aggressor when forced on to his hands and knees. The foremen like to touch him, just like Bernhard’s woman used to. Shame colors his face when they paw between his legs, their batons raining fire on his skin if he tries to move away.

His feet grow blistered beneath the swath of fabric he’s wrapped around them, his hands too, callouses grown from years of swordwork flayed and eroding in the frigid air. There are nicks all along his scalp, the aftermath of escaping the clutch of a gang of pale-eyed prisoners that are relentless in disallowing him his slumber. Hans doesn’t speak, hasn’t in days, just grunts and whimpers pathetically enough to convince the foremen of their superiority. He’s never felt less a prince, throwing elbows to secure his own nourishment, pulling hair and biting to manage what safety he can after the shifts. He rarely finds victory unharmed, his lip constantly split, bruises that swell and make him wonder the point of even rising every morn.

-

It’s his hair they want.

Hans only realizes after being witness to an attack on a prisoner from the most recent deposit. The boy doesn’t last long enough to be helped should Hans have felt foolishly compelled to do so, his crimson braid cut at his nape and his throat then slit. There are more that don’t survive the coming days, always the same. Their hair taken before a blade pierces their flesh.

The pale-eyes make strange trinkets out of it; cords worn around the wrist, even braiding the strands into their own dirty blonde hair, the rich redness a threatening contrast. Hans doesn’t understand, has never heard of such a practice. It terrifies him at night, as much as he tries to resist, every sigh of wind jerking him from sleep, the faintest semblance to footsteps forcing him up and away.

They still pursue him after the shifts, when the foremen retreat to their cabin and have little care for who might still be surviving for role call come morning. So endless is their hunger, the pale-eyes constantly seeking more no matter that they might already have scarlet strands braided into their own. The attacks are ever fiercer after Hans must strangle one to retain his life. He has to run before he can steal the man’s shoes, furious screams echoing in the dark that he can’t understand, that make his pulse so sickly rapid, stomach a constant pit of fright. He can’t go on, not as he is, no weapon but himself, his already meagre strength depleting without reprieve, exhaustion threatening to steal his consciousness every moment of every day.

It comes to him one night, staring at the remnants of a burned-through torch, black left on his fingers when he checks it for any remaining warmth. He finds a deserted fire pit, takes a hand full of ash and presses it against his head, carding fingers through his bangs, hands shaking as he listens for anyone’s approach. The frost on his hair melts as he touches it. His fingers become moist, the ash falling apart like a horrid paste, the feel so disgusting against his scalp. He doesn’t stop until everything feels greasy and stained, his hands leaving a terrible greyish smear when he wipes them against the hard snow.

He feels soiled, beyond dirty and defiled. Shouldn’t matter though. This is survival. And it’s only his hair, useless in all but increasing his danger, in causing him violence and distress. It's just hair but _still_ his throat swells. Vision gone blurry now, feet unsteady, and Hans has to hide again. To get down and low, where no one will know, where no one will touch him or see how far he’s sunk in this miserable corner of the world.

-

Escape should be his main concern.

It’s not though. Is so incredibly far from his top priority.

Hans tries to keep fed, difficult when he so often now is too tired to awaken for role call. He attempted to remedy that once, tried sleeping behind the foremen’s cabin so he’d not miss the bugle’s trill, but one found him and beat him until he couldn’t move but on his hands and knees.

It’s so very cold. So cold and silent, especially in the twilight, hours prior to the morning surge of activity. Hans is often awake those times, breathing tempid air into his forever shaking hands as he shuffles quietly along the back of the shacks, forced to keep moving less the frost overtake him in the frigid hours of early morning. The tundra is just so ever reaching, a grand expanse that never ends, that makes his eyes water if he stares over long. The white just stretches so far, so incredibly  _horridly_ far.

It is like he came to another world. As if he passed unwittingly through some fairy’s portal, to an unending land of pain and toil, so removed from the realm of humanity that there is no way back.

He has that thought often when fresh snow falls from the sky. His eyes begin to burn in this impossibly cold place and he has to hide, to get away before others see and try to take advantage, his lungs afire as keening gasps echo into his blistered fingers. Hans shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s had his punishment, more than atoned for his crimes in the hands of his brothers. Lord, he-, he did not even harm the witches! Ryne cannot say the same, was not even scolded for forcing himself on the Archivist’s son. Menke given but the barest reprimand when he cut his servant’s throat, for naught but a misspoken jest! Things done only in cruelty, in the satisfaction of barbaric vices, not for the grand ideals that Hans had, that he still has, vivid visions of resplendent capitals in mind, taunting him even as he topples ancient trees, ever in his mind as if a waking dream.

Dreaming awake or in slumber, it makes no difference. Is but a false escape from this place, a place he may never escape. Another thought that never leaves him now, that forever has his entire body aching and aquiver. Sometimes he wakes. Sometimes he becomes fully aware as a foreman slams a baton against his backside, lewdly parting his legs where he’s fallen with a frost encrusted boot. Sometimes it’s another prisoner that breaks the illusion, shoving Hans against a tree or frozen boulder, thrusting furiously against him, the air too bitingly bitter to do the deed proper.

Hans has to laugh sometimes once he's again alone. Hysterical little chuckles with the white stretched out before him, an endless haze of the same far above. He laughs into his quivering hands and has to wonder if the whole world hasn't turned to ice. If there are not waves in the midst of the ocean stilled and frozen in chilling accuracy, sailors trudging towards land as they walk the stilled water, frigates and warships left to act the part of macabre castles in the sea. He has to wonder if Arendelle was not just the beginning, and if now the whole of creation has been baptized in snow and ice.

-

Just-, just so cold. And everything shakes. Shaking and shaking, a constant quivering, like a leaf in the wind, held on to its branch so furiously that it just shakes and shakes and _shakes-._

Shapes are looking at him again. Shouldn’t be here. Need, need to be away. Shapes are closer, why hasn’t he moved? Has to. Has to now, _nownownow-._

Red on the ground. His hand too, and one shape falls away, but the others don’t. Noises, they’re making noises at him. Those are the worst, are always bad, he knows. Noises are sound and sound never stops, but just keeps rolling and spreading out, all the way out to the white. But they’ll wake it up, and that, that’s not-.

Pain, his feet. They have been numb so long, he’d forgotten about them. And wind in his face, biting at him, burning, and he swings at it, sees a knife in his hand. But where? When-.

Noises again, when he looks behind, loud, so very loud. He has to get inside, to get hidden, before the white gets up. Before it comes and spreads and takes-.

Knees, he falls, lungs and throat burning.

And his eyes hurt as he blinks, crystals of water in his lashes, trails of ice down his face. But shapes, there aren’t any. Expect, no, there are. Just, just the ones that don’t move, the ones that the walking shapes come out of. Cold hasn’t stopped, wind still attacking him, even here on the ground. He hasn’t done anything, why won’t it leave him alone? It’s from the white, he knows. The white wants him. The white sends its shapes and even its shapes he can’t see and they bite and beat him, get inside him and set a fire in his lungs, scratching his throat and cheeks and hands and feet with little claws that flay and burn.

Noises, but-, but from him. He covers his mouth, but he’s still making noise. Breathy sobs that only make everything worse. He should know better, does know better. There are crystals in his eyes again, his feet not there anymore, can’t-, can’t hardly even see, everything blurred together, the white spreading out, even the grey, and oh, it’s his fault. It is, shouldn’t make noise, shouldn’t ever. Noise only ever got him ignored and hurt when he was small, it does so much worse now.

Away. Away from the cold. The white goes where the cold tells it, need to run again.

A shape, inside one of those, the ones that don’t move, that sit silent. Little fortresses against the snow and sky.

-

A slam, and Murphy’s not asleep anymore. Another, and the wind chills as much as usual when the door bursts open, a twig of a man falling to the floor. His hair is a dingy red, his face too, clothes nothing but rags froze to his body. He kicks the door, scrambling back on his hands. It doesn’t shut, not enough force against the wind. Murphy doesn’t bother with it when he gets up, will after he’s tossed the fool back out.

He comes over to do just that, but then the fool sees him. His eyes go all slitted and fierce, letting out a screech somewhere between fright and a challenge that’s louder than the wind.

Murphy takes a pause. The twig’s barley a scrap of bone and skin. Wouldn’t take a thing to throw him out. But then there’s that knife pointing at him in a shaking fist, blood frozen to the blade. Another screech, quieter, more fright than fury in it, and the man crawls back, something wild in his face, back until he’s pressing into the corner beside the stove.

Murphy follows him, determining how best to do this without injuring himself, watches the gleaming eyes get wide as he does.

The wind bellows, snapping the door against the wall, and the eyes disappear, hidden in the man’s knees as he keens, his knife swinging uselessly through the air.

He’s got the madness, Murphy then figures. Must be a newcomer. Can’t have been here for long to have survived wearing what he is. Not even anything substantial on his feet. The door snaps again, and the twig drops his knife. He covers his head, crying nonsense into his knees, curled as small and tight as he can.

Murphy grits his teeth.

Tries to talk himself out of it. Not his fault this fool is wandering about with nothing but rags. Certainly not his fault the fool couldn’t take the endless stretch of ice and cold. That madness though, it’ll give a weak man a spine and strength where there was none before. Murphy’d rather not deal with that, tired as he is from his shift. The man’s got himself into a decent enough spot too, not enough room for Murphy to struggle with him without getting burnt or cut or both.

Decent reasons all, but in the end he just can’t take that crying much more.

So Murphy turns and presses the door shut. It doesn’t stay, the latch and lock bent, so he wedges a barrel in front of it.

The roar of the wind lessens, but the man doesn’t. “Shut it.”

That’s a mistake, the fool sobbing himself hoarse at Murphy’s voice, nothing sane in him. It’s not even that loud, but Murphy can’t take it. Hates listening to that sort of thing, just hates it _._ Makes his stomach all a clenched and sour, even if he’s not got the slightest care about who the sound is coming from.

Murphy grabs one of his blankets, decides he’ll treat him like an animal if the fool’s going to reason like one. A quick toss, the fool louder for a second when the weight startles him. He's quiet then. Silent. Twig’s covered head to toe then, shaking like a wild thing in a snare.

There’s enough room from the stove that Murphy isn’t worried about waking up to smoke. He gets back into bed and watches the endless trembling in the soft glow of the stove vents until he’s back asleep.

-

Hans wakes to the faint stench of his own sweat. He blinks into brightness, puts a hand out to alleviate his eyes. Something falls from his chest.

A blanket, thin and threadbare when he touches the cloth. His brows furrow and he looks around, sees only a doorway before him, a stove to the right that blocks his view.

Hans can’t remember the last time he’s felt so warm. He rubs his sleeve against his damp forehead and pulls his legs back, starts to cough as his body awakens. It makes his chest and throat burn tremendously, his body shuddering from the force, loud exclamations of sound that reverberate back from the walls. He shouldn’t, must stop it. It’s best to be quiet, always is, especially when he’s no idea where he is, or if he’s even alone. Hans tries. Tries desperately, coughing into his knees, hands cupped around his face like he can force the noise in. 

Then, oh no, then there’s another sound, not from him. A sound like feet, faint vibrations he can feel through the floor. Hans can’t stop coughing, can barely draw breath, and-, and someone’s coming, good god, someone’s _there-._

“Drink.”

A hand around his wrist, and Hans flinches back as far as he can, an arm across his face like that can protect him even as the other is wrenched away. He pulls, but there’s no strength in him, still no breath. His other wrist is taken too and Hans can’t even scream, can’t hardly see as his eyes mist, his lungs burning, there’s just no air-.

A metal rim meets his lips, and he can’t lean away, is already as far into the corner as he can possibly be, and-, and…water.

It flows past his teeth and tongue. Hans sputters, some of it going down his chin, more making it down his throat. He swallows, feels the pain of it, still coughs, but less, air making it in. His sight is less blurry after he blinks past the moisture. He sees a one eyed man hovering over him, feels his hands caged together in the stranger’s massive one as the cup is pushed back to his mouth.

Hans doesn’t resist, though his arms shake. Everything shakes, as is usual. His hands the only exception, held fast like they are. 

A moment and the cup is gone. The man backs away. Hans wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist and hides his hands back in the blanket. Even with wet eyes it is impossible not to note how very tall the man is, how terribly broad. Hans opens his mouth to…to offer some gratitude or some other expected nicety.

Nothing comes out. Nothing but a faint tickle of sound that starts him coughing again. The cup is set on the floor before the man disappears, his form hidden by the stove. Hans grabs it, the liquid sloshing as his body trembles. He remains there for some time, taking the barest of sips, listening past the furious beat of his heart for anyone’s approach. No one does by the time he finishes. He convinces himself of courage and gets to his knees, peeking above the stove.

The man is staring back from a table, and Hans almost ducks back down. He wants to so very badly, acidic fright collecting in his gut. There’d be no use to it though.

More use in gauging the distance to the door and determining if he can reach it first.

“Through with your nonsense?”

“Nonsense?” Hans parrots back on strange reflex. He startles himself and does tuck himself back out of sight.

He hears a snort as fright swells in his blood. “Guess not.”

Deep breaths, throat near tickled into rebellion again, and Hans straightens back up, chancing another glance at the door, “I-I don’t take your meaning.” It feels so strange to converse, his words not flowing with the even keel he once remembers having.

The man is chewing something, and Hans is nearly foolish enough to ask what it is. “Barged in before, screaming at the snow.”

Was he really?

Hans thinks on it, recalls not…not being in a good way. Vague impressions of strange behavior and thoughts stir his mind. Even now the sound of the wind outside makes his jaw clench and toes curl. “My apologies. I, I’ll just …leave…” He hasn’t courage enough to not make it a question, his voice lifting pathetically at the end. There will be some expectation of repayment, must be. Nothing is without price on the tundra.

Surprise catches his breath when the man just jerks his thumb at the door, a clear dismissal.

Relief drops Hans’ shoulder, makes his shaking worse. He’s already on his feet and heading towards the door, needles climbing from his heels when they take his weight. The rags are tattered and the stockings nearly worn through when he looks down. He can’t remember when they got so ragged.

Hans pauses, looking back at the blanket. He chews his lip, glancing between the cloth and the man. Surely it isn’t needed, if it was wasted on an intruder, “Might I-, would you be interested in-, in a-,” the man catches his eyes and it is _so very hard_ to not barricade himself back beside the stove. It is a coward’s thought. Hans knows this. But he is so unnerved right now, his stomach still a clenched knot of frightened pain. It is not even this man. Just…just the thought of any man, any woman or even child.

Perhaps he is not yet so together, some irrationality still clinging to his mind.

“The b-b-blanket,” he bites out, unable to keep from hunching his shoulders, “I could trade-.”

The man lifts a brow, “And what’ve you to trade?”

“Well, I-, I…” Nothing, Hans realizes a moment late. He has nothing. Not a coin, not a trinket, nothing at all. Nothing... save himself.

Maybe it is because there is only one eye staring at him, so narrow and fierce, but he is almost certain that the man expects such an offer.

Hans clenches his hands, stomach no calmer than before, his lip bitten as he finds himself unable to hold the man’s gaze. He doesn’t need it that bad, he…he doesn’t. Truly.

The man gets to his feet and Hans cringes, arms around himself as he puts his back to the wall. He couldn’t resist, not if the issue were pressed. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering to cower. “Gimme the knife.” The man only walks to a nest of fabric in the far corner, his eye closing as he stretches out in the blankets.

Hans slides down some, feels the need to get low so badly, “I-, I don't have one.”

The eye is open again, glaring at him, and Hans wishes he had a knife, desperately does, would relinquish it at once to remain untouched.

But the man just points. Hans looks, eyebrows lifting when he spots a wooden handle peaking from under the stove. He gets on his knees and pulls it out. It's....so familiar, even if Hans has not the faintest recollection of its origin. Even if he has no idea why blood is flaked on the edge.

He hears a sigh, glances up to see the man rolling on his shoulder, facing away, “Forget it. Go.”

“N-no, you, here, you can have it.” Hans stumbles to his feet, looking for someplace near to set it, the blanket clenched in his other fist.

“Take both. Get.” There is something dangerous is that voice, something impatient.

Hans makes for the door as quick as his burning feet allow.

-

It is some days before he feels normal. Before the howl of the wind doesn’t make him want to get down and hide. He hates it, has to watch his feet on the marches to the forest, lest the endless spread of white and grey make his stomach roll. It doesn’t go away so much as it lessens. And then it never disappears entirely, but just gets compacted and merged with everything else that makes Hans nervous. The incessant stare of the foremen, the presence of others all around him, the miserable groan of the trees as they topple... 

Hans doesn’t know how he crumbled originally. Doesn’t know what to do to avoid it again. He only knows better than to think he’ll survive the experience unharmed twice.

Still, he keeps to himself. Manages what food he can in the mornings, sleeps for scant hours at a time, the noise of others waking him immediately. Sometimes it’s just the pale-eyes, having discerned his trick of ash. Sometimes it’s others, expecting some entertainment, and Hans has to fight and writhe and cut before he can find another spot to be safe in.

There are so few though. None permanent. Nowhere that Hans can exist for more than a few hours, certainly not an entire evening. He’s not slept a night through since… well, since when he woke from his madness, perhaps. He’s not sure though, has no estimation of how long he was unconscious. Or even of how long prior he’d been without sense.

He clings desperately to his returned rationality. There isn’t room on the tundra for stupidity, for prolonged weakness. Hans has seen it be the death of countless individuals. It is difficult to maintain, his reason and sense, when he only sleeps a few hours a night. When his feet are constantly cycling between a disorienting numbness and an impossibly frozen burn. He is weak, weaker than he’s ever been, and people notice. He must constantly be on the lookout for those planning on taking advantage, can’t really sleep even when he has the opportunity to, only exhaustion tipping him over the ragged edge of terrified awareness.

The foremen notice. As do the cooks. Soon they will not even feed him, Hans is sure, the amount of work he can manage in the forest not worth even a cup of gruel. They yell at him so frequently now, batons slamming down on his barely covered flesh when he so much as stumbles. It isn't rare for wanton hands to grasp and paw at him where he falls. Hans can only struggle again to his feet afterwards, lip bitten bloody to not make any noise. Sometimes he can see them gathered by the wagon, protected from the wind, their eyes tracking him, making all too clear gestures.

He can’t go on like this.

He can’t, but there isn’t an option to do anything but.

-

Evening again, another day he’ll go without food. Hans chews on a piece of bark behind the scarf he fashioned from the giant’s blankets, tries to think past the insistent clench of his stomach, past the now more frequent haze of a migraine. He doesn’t manage it the best, finds himself on the edge of territory that he knows better than to breach. Not the pale-eyes, but a less ethnically specific group. One that has bred in this frigid waste as would insects in filth. They are gathered out around their communal shack now, all the generations, catching the rareness of a setting sun.

The children do not care and continue their play, throwing each other to the ground and proclaiming their own strength and skill. None but the oldest have known anything but this nearly lawless existence, respect only for the foremen’s batons and the slap of their parents. They are as mindlessly cruel as only children can manage and Hans avoids them as best he can, means to now when he realizes his proximity.

Hans does his best to skirt them, eyes lowered in pathetic routine even though they are already shadowed by his scarf, the fabric wound around his greasy hair and across his face. He tries to pass unnoticed, but the children are too familiar with his ragged exterior and quivering hands.

A piece of ice cracks against the back of his head, uproarious laughter echoing on the wind as he stumbles, the bark sputtering from his mouth. He doesn’t look up, continues on his way, clutches the knife hidden under his layers. He won’t use it, can’t possibly when the parents are so close. They aren’t bothered to punish him for his encroachment at the moment, something sure to change if one of their brood are injured.

“Red bird, red bird,” the children cry, a scattered pounding of feet as they give chase. “Going to make a nest, red bird?”

Hans doesn’t understand this game, is sure that none but the children do, if even there is anything to be understood and not just silly nonsense that has no meaning. Still, he pretends at disinterest. He keeps his pace and doesn't dare to glance back. 

Oh, but that won't do. One of the younger boys run in front of him and pull at the flapping end of his scarf, chirping in so irritating a manner. Hans just puts his head down and keeps on, jerking his cloth back as another ball of ice makes his sight go speckled. “Red bird, red bird,” they all set to chanting. Such pressure builds behind Hans’ temples as he tries to push past, footing then so less than steady when they start thrusting their pelvises against him in ignorant imitation of their elders.

One of the girls is over enthusiastic as she does it. She trips under Hans' feet and sends them both to the ground. Then she screams a child’s scream, blood dripping from her shoulder where Hans’ knife has found purchase.

Oh, oh god.

Hans snatches his hand away, the blade coming free, his whole chest seizing as she screams again. The children all around scream just the same and dart away like an uncovered hive of beetles. Hans can't feel his face. Not his hands or his feet, nothing but the frenzied staccato of his heart.

The winds bellows with more than just itself, a string kinsman already in approach, each hard face creased and vicious in anger. Hans wants to get low, to put his forehead against the ground and _die,_ wants his heart to just stop so he doesn’t have to live the terror churning his stomach. He slides his foot a step back, already starting to pant, fright in every fiber of his being as they get closer, their hands fisted and eyes so vividly intense. “Be worse if you run, red.”

Hans runs.

It’ll only be worse if he’s caught. He stumbles, knows it will be so very much worse if he’s caught. Fear is such a constant in his life that it imparts no speed. His feet pound on the ground, his heart in his throat, every breath rocketing past his teeth. He hears them behind, quicker than he is. Stronger, certainly. Healthier.

A quick turn around a shack gives him a few seconds, but too soon hands are fisting in the loose cloth over his shoulders. He jerks the knot loose, slides under a fence and falls into open air. A rock at the bottom of the drop makes him see spots of light, but he’s not time for that. Must get back up, has to, and he does, stumbling like he doesn’t know how to use his feet. His pursuers are already coming down the decline and he must keep the distance.

But he-, his feet-, he can’t-, god, _he can’_ _t think._ Something gets in his eye and he can’t run, can barely stay upright, and…and this seems familiar.

This swath of packed snow. The derth of all but a few footpaths. A solitary shack with one frost enveloped window. The building is squat and slim, the roof mounted with a softly smoking pipe. And that door...

Hans knows that door.

Hans begs entrance as he paws at the wood. He can find no knob, no handle, _nothing at all,_ but it's too late. They're here, they've already caught up, they going to make Hans shake and shutter so much worse than his brothers ever did. 

"Please," Hans begs beneath the wind's dreadful howl. _"Please,"_  he cries, clawing at the door. His nails leave tracks in the frost and his shoulder throbs when he throws himself forward. "Let me-!" The door gives in a lurch and he’s falling to the floor.

The kinsmen are yelling at him, still getting closer, and Hans scrambles to his feet. He looks up and sees that-, that man, that behemoth with the one eye. One eye that is so narrow and fierce, glaring at him, and Hans knows this is wrong, was a mistake, but he can’t go back out, he _can’t._ “Please,” he’d go to his knees if he thought he could get back up. “Sir, please, just-, just for a moment. Anything, I-, here.” He thrusts out the knife, cuts his palm when he fumbles it in his trembling, “That, and whatever you want, please, I-I, I don’t-.”

They’re right on him, a bare arm’s length away, and Hans rushes forward, falls to his knees behind the man’s chair, behind his bulk. He covers his mouth with his hands, can hardly breathe, can’t really breathe at all. And the door, _he didn’t shut it,_ but he can’t now, the horde already filling the frame, breath sending clouds of condensation in the air. “Get over here, red!” Hans backs up, his heart going too fast, his lungs aflame and stomach churning. So much worse, they wouldn’t have lied, he’s sure. He tries not to imagine, focuses on making his lungs work, on anything but the fright and uncertainly closing his throat. “Give him here!”

The man doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move.

Hans can’t see his face, only the mass of his shoulders and back, the trailing ends of his ginger hair. Beneath the table he can see the multitude of legs. They shuffle and stomp, not yet bounding forward. “I won’t say it twice, boy, give him up!”

Still, the man doesn’t move. Just sits, sloughed in his chair.

Hans doesn’t know what will be worse. Either way he is ruined, but…but this is only a single man, and-, and himself willing, to a degree.

Willing to not be at the negligible mercy of a throng of others, at the least.

Some holler from the back, shuffling and shoving, and they get riled again, courage coaxed by strength of numbers, all of them hollering, and they’re so loud. So incredibly loud, and that-, that’s just worse. He doesn’t know why it’s worse, doesn’t understand at all, but fear climbs Hans like a physical thing, so potent and paralyzing. He makes a desperate sound when one steps past the frame.

Instantly the man stands, his height so great. The light cuts around him and it is as though  he fills the room entirely, a giant of shadow and muscle. A quick movement of his foot, and the knife jumps from the floor, right into his hand. The one who went forward pauses, presses back against his comrades, “Just…just hold on now. We only want him, no need to be get worked up.”

“Out.”

Hans clenches his jaw at that tone. It’s so very deep, the promise of danger in every syllable. He can’t be the only one to feel fear at it, isn’t if how they shuffle back is any indication. “H-hold up, boy, we don’t need no-.”

The man steps forward again, the sound of his foot like thunder, and they all jerk back. Then the door, he slams it shut and Hans can feel the force through the floorboards, the sound of it _ringing_ in his ears.

Then it’s just them.

Just Hans and this giant. This terribly angry giant, if the scowl on his face is any indication when he turns.

And again, a desperate noise of fright escapes from Hans’ throat. He covers his mouth with trembling hands, his eyes squeezed shut. Just needs to stop, to breathe, to remember he chose this. It was the right choice, the smart choice. Hans just needs to remember. He’ll survive, he _will,_  this won't be something unknown to him. It mightn’t even be so bad, the man may not be so cruel. Hans is willing, he is, he must remember he is.

It will make the difference, it will. He knows it will. It must.

It must, but still Hans can barely draw breath. Still his throat is swollen, his stomach an acidic sea of fright and pain, and-.

Footsteps, so close, so loud and heavy. Hans feels them through the floor, hides his face in his knees, just sits and trembles and hurts.

A hand fisted in his hair, and Hans has little choice but to look up. There are spots in his vision again, a dull throbbing that seems new, but even that is already fading, the fire in his lungs so much worse.

“Quit it.”

Hans would. Would at once if he knew what he was doing to offend. The fist shakes him, and Hans was wrong, so very wrong. He always is. Of course the man will be cruel. He’s here on the tundra, has survived in this place.

His brothers told him so long ago, only the bitter things thrive here. The unwholesome things.

-

Murphy doesn’t really notice the blood until he’s shaken the twig twice. He’s just trying to get him to take a breath, to get out of the panic he’s put himself in.

That keening, Murphy just can’t deal with it. Worse that a kit caught in a snare. Twig looks no better than the last time he barged in, is just as slight and distressed. He’s not breathing, not at all now, his bright eyes squeezed shut, so Murphy lets his hair loose. But then he just hides in his knees, not a sound from him then, but that’s only because he’s got no air left in him. “Isn’t no one hurting you yet.” Not even sure if the fool can hear him, as caught up in fear and panic as he is.

Murphy goes down on a knee, pushes the pale face up a mite nicer, can feel a rapid pulse where his thumb is under the twig’s chin, can see the way his chest is working, too quick and shallow for anything to be really making it in, “Oi.”

There’s no use. Fool’s going to have it his way. So Murphy waits.

About a minute and a half more. The twig’s eyes roll back, his body going slack as he falls sideways, and then he’s out.

Murphy sighs. Should’ve asked him if he could read before getting involved.

Looks over at the door, a barrel forcing it to the frame again. Probably ought to just keep it like that in the future. Might get barged in on less.

Nothing to do about it for the moment. Murphy puts his hand against the twig’s chest, feels the lungs moving less shallow. He’s cold. Murphy looks down at his feet, still just wrapped in fabric. Maybe a bit  more this time. Looks like remnants of the blanket.

Another sigh, and Murphy pushes to his feet. Takes another blanket from his bed and drops it over the twig. Decides that’s well enough and gets to work fixing his door lock again.

-

It isn’t in one of his accustomed areas that Hans wakes in. He doesn’t recognize it at all, not until he looks past the legs of a table and sees a doorway that he’s burst through twice.

Awareness comes quickly then, a rush of his blood that brings to mind new spots of pain as the shaking starts. His hand is afire, a gash across the palm when he looks down. There’s an ache behind his eyes, mostly his left. The area is tender and blood flakes off on his fingers. His feet itch and burn.

Nothing…nothing else, though.

That-, well, that's rather surprising. Surely it wouldn’t matter, whether or not he were conscious?

An unpleasant thought that Hans avoids. He pushes against the floor in small motions, can only see by the faint light of the stove vents, a flickering red cast over the floor and walls. The nest of blankets is empty.

Something unclenches in Hans' chest.

Getting to his feet is a long battle. Hans is weak, is hungry and thirsty and feels every bone and joint dither in protest as they are maneuvered. He doesn’t know how long he’s slept, but feels so much better for it. His thoughts are unhurried and less tinged with desperation. The exhausted burn of his eyes is gone. It has been replaced by a greater and more concentrated ache, but still.

Making it to his knees feels like an accomplishment. Hans steadies himself on the table, resting his face on the edge. He notices a bowl as he does, a cup beside it. The chair is his next milestone as he pulls himself up. Elbows then braced, he pulls the bowl forward and feels little beyond excitement at the bare amount of cold rice within. Oh, but it's even cooked.

Hans grins, his chapped lips cracking. He picks the soft grains up with his fingers, lifts the bowl to his mouth and eats without a single sliver of breeding or grace.

It’s gone soon, quite soon. The water follows. Hans spills half of it down himself as his hands quiver. 

A look around shows another door. There are barrels pushed against it though. It seems unused. The floor is scarred wood, clear gouges from a habit of pushing the chair back before standing. A window lies in the same wall as the main door, covered with a tattered cloth.

Hans closes his eyes and scratches at the dried blood making his skin itch. He ought to leave. Before his host returns.

He really ought to, but now he’s eaten the man’s food.

Before, he might not have been pursued. It would be too much effort going after Hans when there are a multitude of bodies in the vicinity to corral, some no doubt as weak as himself. And he’d already given his knife. Surely that could decently compensate the man for doing nothing but stomping furiously at the horde from before and allowing Hans a rest unmolested.

But that was before. Before Hans ate the giant’s food. Food that was likely not even for him, but set out for when the man returned from his shift.

Hans expects he works in the mines, would remember his features were the man a logger. Light ginger hair, a single eye, excessive height and breadth. Not so stirring separately but surely Hans would recall them all together on a single person.

Food is not something so easily overlooked, not here. Not even the meager amount that Hans ate.

He could run. It seems his only strategy for survival lately. There’s nothing else he can manage, as weak as he is. He could run and die, run and be caught by those that will do worse.

Perhaps…perhaps it is the intelligent thing to do, to remain. It won’t kill him, not if he doesn’t struggle, if he makes it into-, into an arrangement. His body rebels, stomach clenching when he thinks of those large hands touching him, of how easily they handled the knife, of how strong and ferocious the giant must be to so easily turn aside a horde of others. But Hans doesn’t have a better plan for survival. He has no other plan. It isn’t in him, to exist by himself on the tundra. Hans is so weak, so slow. Near frozen every morning when he wakes, stomach and extremities a constant pain.

This is all he can think of, willing flesh the only thing that he could possibly offer. 

It would have been little different, had the witch been open to seduction. Hans would have had his kingdom, warming her bed the price. The scenario being the same when he focused his efforts on the sister.

This need not be so different. Hans would have his life, some measure of protection. Of sustenance. At least until he healed and strengthened, until he could manage his own safety.

A sound plan. Little room for mistake. He need only be quiet. Quiet and docile and-, and whatever else the giant might require. 

It would be easy.

The simplest thing.

There’s noise at the door and Hans can’t get to the floor fast enough. The chair tips and he crashes to the ground. He scrambles back, pressing to the wall, fingers clenching in the blanket and heart in his throat.

The door opens, cold sweeping in for the few seconds before it shuts.

And…and then Hans isn’t alone anymore.

The giant crosses to the stove with logs under his arm, a red glow bathing him when he pulls the gate open. He doesn’t speak. Hans doesn’t either, just-, just waits.

There’s more light a moment later, a lantern lit and hung on a hook. Hans wishes there wasn’t, feels better in the darkness. Less nervous. It’s an irrational thought. Fingers grasp no less tightly without light, bruises form whether or not they can be seen.

Hans is seen then, the man’s eye meeting his over the table. “You read?”

That voice. Hans would shake if he weren’t already. “Pardon?”

The eye narrows. “Read. Can you?”

Hans nods, swallows painfully, “Y-yes, yes, I do.” His stomach hurts, the throbbing worse above his eye. He looks down. Feels the coward for it.

“Write?” He nods again, flinches when the chair is righted. Looks up from beneath his lashes. The man nudges the empty bowl, the patched side of his face in Hans’ sight. “Make a trade with you.”

Hans should get to his feet, straighten his shoulders, do something to appear less like prey. “Yes?” He still has nothing to offer but himself. The giant will know that, has likely made such a trade to others, protection for…for whatever he might request. There are so many things he might demand. Hans shouldn’t attempt to count anything out, not in this land, where beasts walk on two legs and wear human skin.

The man slouches some, the bulk of his chest lessening none in how it intimidates, “Teach me how, and you can stay here.”

“To-, to what?” Hans can feel how wide his eyes are, the pain behind swelling again, “To write?”

“And read.”

Hans starts breathing too quickly again, has to cover his mouth with his hands and force the incredulity down. “A-and I can stay? You, that’s all you want?”

The giant nods, his fingers tapping a beat against the table. For some reason it’s too much, everything’s too much, his stomach clenched and painfully cold, and-, good god, _oh-._

There are hands pulling him from the floor. He can’t fight, his arms tight against his stomach, everything such a fire and hurt, and this horrid pulsation, cold air on his face and then Hans feels his entire body try to climb out his throat.

-

There is little Hans detests more than being sick. Always there is a sourness in his mouth after, a delicate balance of pain and ache through his body when he retches. He ate too quickly, he surmises later, nothing in his stomach now but some water. The giant has gone again, and Hans is tucked by the stove, his back to the wall and a wonderfully heavy blanket overtop.

Sleep pulls at him lightly, a meagre slumber that the crackle of the stove shakes him from every few minutes. Strange thoughts feel so loud between his ears in this drowsy haze; that this is where he will die, not victim to the frost but crushed to meal by a gargantuan fist, his heart exploding in his chest as he is squeezed to nothing. A maid used to tell him a story similar every night, the consequence that little children suffered when they got out of bed without being told, caught and eaten by the giants hiding under the floor boards. He wonders what it would feel like, to be nothing. Not the nothing he is now, but a true naught, a non-existence. To have no body to hurt, no mind to think, just…just nothing.

Maybe an ideal state.

The wind howls louder, forces Hans’ blood faster, more coherence in his thoughts. The blanket’s weight is a strange comfort, a barrier between him and the outside world. A fortress that he can pretend is his own. He manages no more sleep, the door opening and his nerves alighting at once.

Hans calls himself a coward but still presses further against the wall, pulling the blanket more tightly across him as if it could possibly hold the giant at bay.

It doesn’t, of course, the echo of each step making Hans’ heart beat ever faster as the man approaches, the scowl and ferocity of his face so easy to see in the stove’s glow. He gestures with a hand and Hans is not idiotic enough to refuse, shifting upright on shaking arms, his stomach churning and clenching as he sits up, his back pressed again tightly to the wall. The man crouches then, reaches forward, a scowl yet on his face, such fierceness in his eye, and Hans clenches his hands in the blanket, blood moving so fast, barely able to take breath-.

“Here.” Bread. Near hidden in the shadow of the giant’s hand. “Might sit better with you till you’re used to getting fed regular.”

It is hard, and likely old, but Hans doesn’t care. He struggles to eat it slowly, small bites that he chews long enough for his stomach to pause its horrid rebellion after each swallow. The giant retreats to the door as Hans does this, grabs a bucket left there and upends it into a pan on the stove, fresh snow hissing as it touches the metal. A moment more and he pours rice from a cloth sack into a smaller pan, the sound of the grains akin to rainfall. Just melted water is thrown on top, and then the giant takes a seat, his bulk again hidden by the stove, naught but the top of his hair visible if Hans stretches his neck.

They pass some silence, nothing but the faint gurgle of cooking rice and the pounding beat of Hans’ heart between them. He doesn’t move until the rice is moved to a bowl, the giant back at his seat, and even then barely. Just the smallest maneuver to the side, so he can meet the man’s eye, “If-, if you’d indulge me-,” the bowl gets set aside, the man’s face so incredibly fierce. Hans can hardly stand it, has to convince himself of courage again, “Just, the terms. You, I don’t know if I-I heard correctly-.”

“Letters,” the man grunts, lifting his bowl again, brows furrowing. “Don’t know them.”

What need had this man of literacy? Hans does not ask, folding his hands together to sate his nerves. “To read and write? Our language?” The man nods, his scar more pronounced in the flickering light. It’s such a long thing, an imprecise line from chin to beneath his patch. Hans wonders if there is an eye there, just blinded, or if it’s gone all together. He’s not so foolish as to ask. “And, and I can stay?” Another nod. Hans clears his throat, hopes to not start coughing again. “Sir-.”

He gets scowled at again, snaps his mouth shut. “Murphy.” Hans doesn’t move. “Quit calling me that. It’s just Murphy.”

“Hans,” he replies in a weak voice, manners rising from some far buried place. “I-I, I’m Hans. A pleasure to meet you.”

Murphy the giant snorts, going back to his rice, cold amusement on his face, “Sure it is.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not such a pleasure later, though Hans can hardly blame Murphy for it.

Likely it’s just that his body has reached a threshold, and cannot possibly function anymore. Perhaps it is the result of being inside after such long exposure to the elements. Or maybe that his entire being just rebels and rejects the thought of being in constant closeness to such a behemoth. No matter why, Hans teaches his benefactor not a single character for nearly three weeks. Fever takes him, a weakness beyond what he’s ever felt. He shakes such that surely he will forever crumble apart. Nothing can he eat, a bare minimum can he drink. He spends his days in a haze of awareness, tucked still back by the stove, more blankets making a bedding better than Hans has yet had in this land.

Were he out on the tundra he’d be dead. There is no question. No other alternative. Murphy is often gone, is quiet when he’s there. From somewhere he procures broth, maybe some deal with a guard or the cook. It’s the only way Hans survives, there can be no doubt. Nothing else will stay down, but not even that when some cooked rice is mixed among it.

Murphy lets him recover without a single demand, doesn’t touch him but to hold his hands steadier around the broth. Much too precious to be allowed to spill, so Hans does his best not to flinch, to keep the fright and nervousness from closing his throat.

He sleeps. So much. Day and night have no distinction, the sun an ever present brightness behind the ragged curtain. His dreams are not so numerous, the vague impression of memories catching his breath when he surfaces for a few moments. Never can he recall them, only the heavy pound of his heart and the paranoia of his mind offering any illumination. He doesn’t chase after the seeds of his unease, is ever thankful when slumber retakes his mind.

-

There is a pervasive heat all along him, and finally Hans comes to awareness without the fogginess that has dogged all his previous awakenings. It’s a glorious feeling; to know some coherence, to finally have mostly dispelled the ever present nausea. He throws back his fortress of fabric, stretching his arms to the shack’s cobwebbed ceiling. They feel so brittle, his legs too, hair a tangled mass of debris and sweat. His hand yet quivers when he passes it through his bangs, grit catching beneath his overlong nails.

Everything within him rebels when Hans forces himself vertical. It cannot be too far into the morning, three logs yet mostly whole when he looks in the stove. Murphy won’t be back for hours yet, enough time for Hans to put some effort towards his own uncleanness.

It’s difficult to maintain the motivation for such a goal, his feet burning so intensely, a line of fire from heel to toe when Hans walks to the door. His eyes water in the icy air, a coldness he’d near forgotten. The snow is loose, piled against the door, a result of some recent flurry. Hans melts some on the stove, resting on his pile of blankets. It would be easier to take the chair.  Murphy’s chair. Easier on his legs and feet when he attempts verticality.

Hans doesn’t though, just folds his knees to his chest and rests his face against them, so uncomfortable now that he is aware enough for the feeling to take hold.

And he feels so disgusting, his hair greasy, clumped in sweat-dried tangles when he touches the strands again, ash still lingering on his fingers. His body hurts, all along the side he took to laying on, little rends of flesh when he removes his shirt to investigate. Annoyance takes him then. He did not even need to be touched by Murphy’s large hands to be damaged, his own body more than willing to compound its weakness and frailty without the intervention of others. He doesn’t give the water long to warm, leashed as he is by such a compulsion to be freed from the layers of filth and dust that envelop him. He discards his scraps of clothing with a curled lip, refusing to acknowledge the protrusion of his hipbones.

The water yielded from the snow is little, made less yet when Hans wets his throat. He finds a rag and cleans the sweat and dirt from his skin with barely warm water, and feels a measure more alive than he has in so long. Maybe he will attempt some rice today.

It is snowing when he drags the bucket back to the entrance, blanket wrapped around his body. He’s not the strength to throw the soiled water, just tips it out as far as he can manage from the door before taking another bucketful inside. It takes another three trips before the pan is full, exhaustion already pulling at Hans’ now clean limbs. Still he toils. Still he will accomplish this one task even if he must crawl.

He doesn’t have to, a near thing, his hair rinsed and clothes soaking in the remaining water before his feet refuse to further sustain his meagre weight. Again, he avoids Murphy’s chair, sliding as slowly as he may to the floor, eyelids fighting to drop every moment.

It’s alright though, Hans only naps an hour. He is less quick to his task than earlier, but still his clothing is wrung and left beside the stove to dry, the dirtied water taken again outside before he has no recourse but to reenter his blanket fortress as sleep takes him.

The next day is better. The one after even more so, though his feet yet ache and persist with an endless and irritating burn. Murphy notices his mobility, even if he says nothing when returning from the mines. He keeps to his area and Hans to his own, ever listening for the approach of mammoth footfalls as he huddles in the corner. Perhaps his fear is foolish, the yet constant tremble of his hands nothing but unwarranted cowardice. Still, the glare of Murphy’s eye undoes him, the stern expanse of his scarred face the most convincing deterrent from familiarity as Hans has ever known.

Regardless, he has to conquer himself. Hans must determine how best to commence with his side of the agreement. Surely the giant has grown impatient, is likely near to just throwing Hans back to the tundra. Maybe he wouldn’t though. Maybe he’d force compensation in other ways.

Ways less academic.

Hans pushes up from the floor, jaw clenched against the pain.

He hasn’t put much thought in how to proceed in the giant’s education, and now the lack of forethought is a glaring gap. He has little knowledge of the items here, of what may be hidden in the barrels. Paper is a necessity, parchment or any suitable writing medium really. Hans can’t imagine there is anything to write within the encampment, save for the charcoal pencils the cooks and role-takers use.

That’s useful, actually. Hans isn’t fool enough to beg one of his captors, but it shouldn’t be too horridly hard to fashion his own.

-

Murphy comes home as Hans is sharpening the tips of wooden remnants. Hans doesn’t actually take much notice, hunched before the stove as he’s been for the last hour, attempting not to flay himself with a knife. The tips are just slivers of wood that he’d charred on the end, putting as much a point on them as he could muster. It’s difficult, the blackened wood softer now, needing the slightest provocation to flake and chip. Maybe he ought to have sharpened them first, but then the fire might’ve eaten through them entirely. Perhaps they shouldn’t be so sharp at all, as a blunt end might stand up better to whatever they find to write on-.

“What’re you doing?”

Hans jumps, can’t not, hasn’t been audibly addressed in so very long. He manages not to cut himself when the knife falls, the stick nearly snapping in his other hand. It’s foolish to be so constantly frightened. Surely he’d not have been spared the last weeks if the man had anything violent in mind. Anything excessively violent, at any rate.

Hans forces his knees to bend, pulls the knife from the floor as he glances over his shoulder, “I-I thought you might like to, well, to get started?”

Parchment is eventually produced from somewhere, the lamp brought low and set on the table. A crate appears, something Murphy gestures Hans at while taking his own seat. Hans’ feet appreciate the gesture, even if the nearness of their bodies invokes furiously repressed trembles. Murphy doesn’t say anything after, just stares at the tabletop like the most intense student Siberia has ever known.

Which, well, it makes this ever more difficult.

Hans isn’t a tutor. Has little idea how to impart the knowledge of literacy to another.

Still, forward he must forge. And after another silent moment wherein sweat gathers on his palms he even manages to. “Do you have any, um, any prior knowledge?” Murphy doesn’t answer, just stares with his narrow eye. It seems to be his usual response to any conversation. Hans puts a hand through his hair to abate his nerves, looks away. “Right, well, writing. Best place to start.”

He takes the stick and applies it delicately to the parchment. A faint grey squiggle appears, no matter how desperately Hans is trying to steady his grip. He tries holding his wrist still with his other hand, takes a deep breath, holding the air in tightly. It burns and he lets it out, but still he trembles so.

Jaw clenched, the stick again to the parchment, little charcoal dots appearing as his fingers quiver, nothing like the character he’s attempting to make. The tip snaps after an ill-timed quiver of his wrist.

Murphy twitches as Hans tries to breathe out his frustration, his voice as quiet as usual, “I’m not going to hurt you-.”

Lord, but that's just so _embarrassing_ to hear. Hans bares his teeth and beats his hand against his thigh. “It’s not you," he mutters as he squeezes his hand into a tight fist, fingers pale and bloodless.

Still, it trembles.

Hans makes a furious noise in his throat, beyond frustrated. He isn’t that sick, isn’t even cold or frightened and still his body continues this constant weakness!

How amazingly arrogant that Hans thought himself a king when his body cannot even manage the simplest of tasks.

It’s a waste of material but he has no other recourse, scrawls the letters large and bold, the unsteadiness of his hand easy enough to overlook and still see the general shape, “There’s the first few, do you recognize any?” Murphy doesn’t, or at least it seems like he doesn’t, not the slightest indication otherwise in his expression. He takes the stick when it’s presented, sets to copying as Hans explains each character with a tone more waspish than is probably wise. Hans' hand is no steadier when they move on to the next set, the arches jagged and sloppy, Murphy’s attempts no better.

He doesn’t handle an instrument of literacy nearly as well as a knife, breaks the first stick in half after only a few minutes. It is petty, how Hans finds solstice in that, in not being the only one here so ineffectual and useless. Even if it is only in this single aspect, one so inconsequential for survival in this horrid place.

-

It is a strange cohabitation. Murphy demands nothing but knowledge. And Hans provides it, as best he can. He is still never touched. The rare exception when the flames in his feet suddenly surge and he loses his footing, a large hand clenching around his elbow if Murphy is near enough. Maybe he’d be warmed by it if the touch of any hand didn’t make his blood race. Likely nothing to be warmed by anyway. The man has a certain stoic order to his lair and would likely rather Hans didn’t crack his head and bleed out on the floor.

No longer does he wake with any remnants of disorientation. His bed sores are mostly healed, though he can still feel indentations where the skin festered. They will scar of course, just one more mark the tundra has given him.

The days are long when Murphy is gone, made longer yet with the varying itch of Hans’ feet. He avoids looking at them, no matter the foolishness therein. They will heal…or they won’t. Hans can do nothing but wait and hope his body is not past the point of self-repair.

The sun hasn’t set in more than a week. Hans isn’t sure how long exactly, only noticed it some time ago. He’d read about such phenomenon in the world, countless hours spent in the Royal Library during his adolescence, friends made with fictional heroes and faraway places. There is no library here, no one and nothing to sharpen his mind against, nothing to chip away at the long dredge from morning till night.

So Hans sleeps more than he should, sometimes doesn’t wake until Murphy is throwing the door open. They’ll have a lesson if Murphy isn’t too tired for it, and then Hans will lie awake in the blankets, a migraine beating in tempo with his heart. Sometimes he dreams, ridiculous things like returning to the Southern Isles full of health and vigor. Of laying in sun-heated sand, hot cider in one hand and oven fresh bread in the other. He always wakes colder than he started from that dream, always pokes the flames in the stove higher and convinces himself that he needs nothing else.

The days run together so continuously and one comes where he just can’t be so still anymore, no matter how his hands shake and his feet rebel.

An hour passes on his knees, a scrap of cloth made dingy and dark as he pulls layers of ground-in dust and filth from the floorboards. He melts enough snow to fill the metal canister that sits beneath the window. The stove’s trap is located and Hans spends a frightful time emptying it behind the shack, eyes ever flicking to and fro, blood rushing as he listens for the slightest crunch of snow, for any indication of someone other than himself.

It exhausts him, Murphy already home and fed when he wakes hours later.

Days pass and the floor will only be so clean, the pans and buckets scoured and restacked each morning when Hans finds the motivation. He finds a needle on a high shelf one day, busies himself piecing back together his tattered layers. He pulls apart one of his foot wrappings for thread and spends the evening reinforcing the seams of his shirt and pulling tears back together. The needle is carefully replaced before Murphy returns, nothing of his nest or other possessions ever disturbed. Hans hasn’t the courage to paw through the man’s things. Has not even the curiosity.

Conversation is rare between them, lessons the only time that Murphy ever speaks. And then only if he has to, if Hans absolutely refuses to continue without Murphy doing some recitation. Hans rarely has the courage for that though, and generally the lessons are a practice in listening to himself talk.

Days later Hans makes too much rice, at least more than he’s comfortable eating when he puts no effort towards its collection. He sets it on the table and retires to his blankets, is so tired of silence and makes to remedy that when Murphy comes home and starts his usual routine of making dinner for himself. “What are you doing?”

A quick glance down, a strange expression on Murphy’s tired face. “Hungry.”

Yes, Hans understands that. “There’s a bowl on the table.”

Murphy furrows his brow, the strap of his patch throwing the shadows of his face into greater relief, “Already cooked.”

“It is.” Perhaps he had a difficult shift, comprehension plodding along at a slower rate, “Cooked for you, even.” If Murphy is at all taken back by that or thinks it a lie Hans doesn’t see, eyes falling closed. Can’t imagine how he’s so tired after barely moving the entirety of the day, but he is.

A moment and Murphy’s footsteps retreat, the scrap of the chair being pulled out the last sound heard before Hans is no longer conscious.

-

Most nights there’s a bowl waiting on the stove for him now.

Murphy isn’t sure why, as he’s made it decently clear he’s not planning to do the twig any harm.

Less of a twig at the moment though. Doesn’t look nearly so starved and frozen now that he’s been fed regular the last weeks. Now that the fever’s run its course. Skittish still, quiet but for when he’s lecturing.

Was a little tense the first few nights, waiting for the slow slide of feet over floorboards, ready to flip over and snatch away a risen knife. Was the only rational thing to expect from making such a deal with another convict, no matter how thin and weak he looked. Was some part idiot to make any deal. Hadn’t much other choice though, not if he wants to read his brother’s letters.

Maybe it would’ve gone worse had the twig not taken sick.

Either way, he’s not going to complain about his dinner already being set out in the evening.

Just as it is now, some steam still rising from the grains. It’s mostly tasteless on his tongue, but soft and warm. Murphy usually didn’t have the patience to let it cook the whole way through, would be picking bits of hard grain from his teeth into the next morning.

He looks over when Hans comes in, a bucket of snow in his shaking grip. Murphy’s not sure what’s wrong with him, gave enough of his own blankets to keep him warm, food readily available. Maybe he’s not eating right, more raw rice in the sack than Murphy thinks there should be for feeding two people. Maybe he’s yet nervous, but Murphy doesn’t know how to make it clearer that he’s expecting naught but literacy.

Hans stubs a toe against the floorboards, his inhale heavy and pained. Murphy glances down, spies the dingy cloth he’s yet using to cover his feet. Probably something wrong with them. “Come here.” His throat’s a bit rough, the words coming out meaner than he means. Hans looks up under his bangs, a question in his face. Murphy gets to his feet, taking the bucket and leaving it by the stove. “Sit.” Hans resists when Murphy shoves him towards the chair, though not for long. Less than a moment and his shoulders go slack, cheek bitten like he has to keep himself silent.

Skills learned on the tundra, how not to provoke the anger of those larger and stronger. Predators feeling less need to maim when submission comes so quick.

Murphy sighs, keeps forgetting to be gentler. Isn’t his brother he’s bothering towards health. He drops to a knee once Hans is sat, grabs his foot without thinking to say what he’s doing, the twig trying to jerk away before he can stop himself. “Oi-,” instant stillness, Hans breathing harder than he needs to. Murphy sighs again, leans back a little. “Need to see how bad it is.” Was foolish to wait so long before getting a look.

Looks as horrid as Murphy thought it’d be once he gets through the wrappings. There’s nothing healthy about them, nothing that looks like flesh. Must be hell to walk on. “You soaking it?”

“What?”

He never dealt with winter before? “Soak them in warm water, got to pull the ice out of your blood.” Probably should just do it now. The bucket Hans brought in isn’t anywhere near melted yet but there’s a steaming pan mostly full on the stove. Murphy pours it atop the snow, the white hissing as it disappears. He sets the bucket before the chair and gestures. Hans doesn’t fight him, slides his feet in the water. Might not be too late to save them, so long as they’re kept from the cold. Be better if he wasn’t walking around in scraps of cloth.

Nothing much to be done about that though.

Isn't that far into the evening, at least by Murphy’s reckoning, and he’s not completely exhausted from work. So he gets the parchment and sticks out, settling himself on the crate.

They’ve been at this a month now but Murphy still can’t make it through even the first line of Seamus’ letters. He tries in the morning when Hans is still asleep, unfolding the paper in the flickering red light of the stove vents, silently mouthing each character that he can remember and waiting for comprehension to come. It never does, not really. Murphy can pick out the letters of his name pretty well, but a lot of the others don’t look like anything he’s seen. Could be that Seamus just writes messier, but Murphy doubts it.

He doesn’t remember a lot of the lessons. Hans is just so quick at it, can draw a letter ten times without a single stutter, not counting the quiver of his hands. Can write a sentence out like it’s the easiest thing. Murphy should be able to do that, is sure he could. Once he knows all his letters it’ll be different. Once he can remember them all and all the sounds they’re supposed to make when next to each other, it’ll come together then. He hopes.

“-but this is just the common script, of course. Most books, treaties, anything written at the level of government or church actually, will be in a different hand, like this here, less distinction between each character-.” Murphy tries to focus, faint lines and loops swimming in his sight. He’s not sure if the letters are supposed to look like that or if Hans’ shaking is to blame. He tries to pick out his name from them, and what he can remember of the ones that spell his brother’s, but nothing really seems right, everything so small and slotted together.

He looks back up at the top, where the words written normal are, lines and arches distinct enough. Ca…cas-t…can’t remember what the long line is, and then…he’s pretty sure Seamus has one of those, that half-circle with an extra line-, “-though, really it’d be best if you learned these afterwards, the shape following the common characters rather closely.” Page gets flipped before Murphy can finish putting the word together, Hans scribbling out something new.

Nothing Murphy’s smart enough to make any sense of.

-              

Hans starts going outside again, farther than it takes to piss behind the shack or to bring in snow and wood. He doesn’t make it far the first time, the main housing not even in sight before he can’t handle the nerves, convinced every shift of the wind is covering the approach of others.

He manages further in subsequent attempts, sure that exercise will aid his feet as much as the daily soakings may. He’s not noticed much difference from either tactic, remains determined though. Hopeful. Surely Murphy would have told him were it a lost cause.

Murphy is not what he expected. Not entirely.

There is a certain…Hans would hesitate to call it kindness, doesn’t know the man nearly well enough to make such a judgment. Doesn’t know him at all really, but is decently confident that he can forget the possibility of unwarranted violence. So long as Hans stays docile. His main objective really, besides attempting to impart literacy. It’s difficult to determine how well he’s proceeding towards that goal. Murphy never asks questions. Seems attentive, but his letters haven’t improved, the scrawl of them difficult to decipher when Hans can convince him into trying it himself.

Maybe it is the fault of the tools available.

Even a sturdy quill might do wonders for improvement, more able to stand up under the heft and strength of Murphy’s hand. Hans hasn’t seen such on the tundra though, and isn’t fool enough to see if the pale-eyes would be willing to trade one from their trinkets.

Though, with the rumor he’s chasing, there might be a solution. The previous day he’d been trying to dig out roots from the overhang of a nearby hill and had overheard a conversation above about a shipment of fowl. It’d be a grand thing to steal one away, even the carcass to boil. Maybe there’d be some feathers about as well. Wouldn’t matter unless they were pheasant or something as sturdy, but Hans can hope.

It's still strange to be out here again, the wind so biting, eyes watering from the constant assault. Snow fell during the morning, a light dusting that makes the encampment look a great deal quainter than it could ever be. It’s somewhat pathetic how he picks out places he used to hide and sleep. They all seem so incredibly obvious now, if he were to look with a predator’s eye. Unsurprising, really, that he was harassed so often.

Hans avoids the main thoroughfare, walking in the shadows behind shacks, head titled down so his scarf obscures his face. Now that he’s known warmth it’s difficult to weather the reminder of how cold he can be, his face almost numb, collar bitten to stop his teeth, arms wrapped around his chest like he can hold the wind at bay. He falls into old habits so quickly, trying only to walk on the sides of his feet, the pain less there, shoulders hunched and moving in a slow shuffle. Slower than usual, his legs protesting the distance they’ve gone today. Which isn’t anything really, Murphy’s shack still visible if Hans turns to look.

At one time Hans thought himself athletic. Just one more notion the tundra has disabused him of.

Doesn't matter. Not right now. Hans has more pressing matters than his self-esteem to attend, and none more so than finding this rumored fowl. If the shipment wasn’t originally taken in by the cook it would hopefully be there by now. Certainly a safer option than attempting to burglar the foremen’s cabin. Suicide, surely. And Hans can’t be the only one that’s hatched such a ploy. There must be some sort of security involved, perhaps an additional guard-.

A bellow cuts the air behind him, alongside the heaving pound of feet, “Big fellow finally let you off your knees, red?!”

Hans hasn’t the time to turn around before fingers grip his scarf, jerking him back.

Then there’s a furious man in his face, barring blackened teeth, “Think I’ve forgotten what you did to my daughter?” He’s a clansman, one of those that chased Hans into Murphy's territory, his eyes glassy and wide as he screams, “ _Think you can kill her and not get your reckoning_?!”

Hans slams his head forward on startled reflex, jerks away when the man howls, blood running from his crooked nose. “I-I didn’t-.”

“I’ll kill you!” Hans ducks down, a bulging fist passing over his head, “Fucking red trash, I’ll kill you!” He tries to run, lungs burning, feet burning more, but then he falls, ice and stone spearing out of the ground, his foot wraps sliding off, weren’t tied properly, and _good god_ , there are hands on his shoulder, flipping him around and he can’t fight, can’t breathe, arms over his face, can’t-, can’t do anything when a blade glints dully above.

But then the ground trembles behind him, a boot flying into his vision, the man’s chin jerking up as the whole of him lurches back.

Hans tries to scramble away, desperation cracking his voice when another hand grabs him. But-, oh, it-, it’s just Murphy.

A furious Murphy, his face and grip savage as he pushes Hans back, leaping forward as the clansman gets to his feet and charges. They tear at each other, a crowd gathering, Hans curling himself as small and non-distinct as possible. He should help, should do something other than act the coward. He wants to, desperately does, would be happy beyond measure if he could see to his own defense, if he could be his own shield and sword. But Hans can’t, can barely even get to his feet. Not like Murphy, who is moving so effortlessly, the fall of his fists as constant as the cold, such fierce determination on his face when the clansman finally falls, red splashed across the ground.

Hans swallows with difficulty, tries to speak his gratitude. Can’t though, not when Murphy clenches his hand around the fabric at the back of Hans’ neck, jerking him away with such dreadful force. “Murphy-.”

“Didn’t know you were that much of a blasted fool!” Hans flinches, the bellow like a war call in his ear, heart starting to race again. He grabs at his collar, pulling it away from his throat so he can better breathe, hasn’t the air to say anything more before the shack is before them, Murphy throwing him inside, the slam of the door ringing in Hans’ ears. His feet can’t handle the inbalance, and he has to catch himself on his knees and hands, heart pounding so loudly as he attempts verticality. But still Murphy is louder, still he roars as if akin to thunder, “What you need out there?!”

Hans does not cower, not yet, even as his voice trembles, “Nothing, I-.”

“Then for _nothing_ I had to get those vermin off you?” Murphy’s face is so red, his single eye as piercing and furious as Hans can ever remember seeing. “For nothing I’ve got to work all day then worry about you getting your head bashed in by a fool twice your fucking size?!”

“N-no, I-.”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Murphy throws water into a pan, splashes hissing when they touch the stove, rice following. “Not a single reason you need to be putting yourself out there like that, not a one!”

“I, I’m sorry-.” A clatter of metal on wood and Hans immediately gets low, shoulders curled forward and arms across his chest. Water and rice are scattered, the pan on the floor, red dripping from the handle and Murphy’s palm where it slipped. “He-, he hurt you?” Hans comes forward, a foolish thing to decrease the distance, but he doesn’t think very consciously about it. Can't, when such stark disbelief rises at sight of the rend in Murphy’s flesh, “Are you-.”

“Goddamnit!” Murphy kicks the pan, the edge of it flying past Hans’ check, too close and loud for him not to flinch. This is the Murphy he’s always feared, fury in every line of his face, what can only be soon to erupt violence rippling along his jaw and broad shoulders. Hans has gone too far, much too far. Can’t do anything to stop it, so he just gets low. Like he should be. Hans gets down on his knees and starts picking the rice up with shaking fingers, but that’s not better. Of course it isn't, Murphy still so furious, his bellow near deafening, “ _Stop it_!”

Hans stops, immediately, just fists his hands in his shirt and retreats to his corner, stomach so sick and clenched, the whole of him a tremble no matter how desperately he tries to calm. He doesn’t move again that night, just silently watches Murphy’s feet under the stove, throat swelling every time they move.

-

They don’t speak, don’t lesson. Hans’ fault really, can’t manage even the barest of a word without an immediate stutter. He cleans the rice from the floor and cooks it when Murphy’s at work the next day, almost can’t keep it down. Ridiculous that he’s so upset still. Not like he was harmed, not like Murphy didn’t have the right to be furious.

Still, the grains stick in his throat. Still, he has to step outside hours later to throw the meager amount up when Murphy comes home, a dingy cloth wrapped around his large hand.

A day passes, and then two more before Hans can keep his food down, his heart only racing a little whenever he’s not alone.

It’s another week before Murphy has words for him, the door slamming shut when he comes home later than usual, “Here.”

Hans looks up from mending his shirt, has to throw his hands up to catch the shadow sailing at his face. Fabric from the feel, thick and soft when Hans curls his fingers against it. Still cold from being outdoors. He doesn’t know the material, holds it away from himself to see the shape, speaks very quietly, feels a touch accomplished for how even his voice is, “Did you need it fixed?”

“Isn’t torn.” Murphy’s already done with his dinner, laying down in his nest now, an arm over his eyes, “Should fit you.”

Oh. That…that’s strange.

Hans twists his needle into the wall after a still moment, slides the fabric over his shoulders, revels at the wonderful weight of it as he finds sleeves. It was made for an individual taller than he, the cuffs sliding past his fingers. That’s alright though. An easy adjustment. It likely belonged to someone who was once prosperous, dirtied embroidery all around the neckline. He doesn’t much care how it was taken from them. “... Thank you.”

A long moment of silence and then Murphy flips away on his shoulder, mutters so gruffly, “Keep a blade on you at least, and wait until I get back.”

Hans brings the edges of the coat together over his chest and presses a sudden smile into the wide collar.

-

“Do you understand this?” Nothing. “Murphy!”

“Aye?” Murphy shakes his head and blinks, awareness returning, “What?”

Hans taps the parchment, “Starting here.” He gets a scowl, as he always does when Hans tries to get him to recite. “Go ahead.”

Murphy glances at the letters, slides across them much too quickly to have comprehended them. “Okay.”

“No.” Hans leans forward, pulls the lamp closer so there can be no excuse of the light being too dim to see proper. “I want to hear you.”

“Don’t need to hear it,” Murphy growls back, his eye narrow.

Hans hasn’t the patience to be frightened today, not when his soles have been burning like a living flame for the past three days. Even now, submerged in steaming water, it is like needles continuously pierce and twist. Frustration and the growing suspicion that he’s been lecturing for nothing haven’t improved his mood. So he leans ever closer, “Read it.” Murphy glares back, could again morph into that wrathful being so quickly. Hans pushes that thought away, cannot continue existing here if he fears that retort to his every act. Murphy did not even hurt him. Perhaps would not have hurt him, no matter Hans’ idiocy. “Can you?”

Stillness, and finally Murphy shakes his head, crossing his arms on the table and hunching his shoulders.

“Good lord, of course you can’t.” His irritation wakes strong and swift, water splashing as he stands and walks away, dragging fingers through his tangled hair. He isn’t surprised, just…just so immensely frustrated. Which, no reason to be, it’s Murphy’s decision if he doesn’t want to pay attention. His choice to waste time staring at parchment and pretending to learn.

But what does he want, if not literacy? Why is Hans here, allowed to stay fed and warm and unmolested by ice and criminals?

Murphy keeps his seat. He clears his throat after a long moment and speaks quieter than he is accustomed. “Didn’t want you getting impatient, with me asking questions and-, ...and being slow.”

Hans sighs, turns around, “You do want to learn, though?”

A sharp nod, Murphy's brow ever more furrowed, maybe shame on his face, “…Sorry.”

“...It’s fine.” Hans sits, doesn’t know why he bothered getting up. His frustration has been tempered at the price of his feet. “It is. Just, I’m not trying to make you out to be a fool, you know?” Murphy doesn’t look at him, face without expression as he stares down at the characters. Hans puts a hand through his hair again, a migraine threatening. “The things we are doing seem rudimentary to you, but they are the basics. Absolute essentials. Children learn these as they gain greater proficiency in thought and language, developing writing and reading and speech all at the same time. Perhaps the difficulty for you is going back to the beginning, learning the rules that apply for the simplest of phrasing despite your vastly greater knowledge.”

Murphy glances at him, a frown touching his lips.

Hans feels a smile grow, and makes no effort to lessen it. “It’s like this; do you know any other languages?”

The frown is larger now, a petulant touch to it, “Middish.”

“Then I’m sure you didn’t walk into Corona expecting to learn and understand their speech immediately. You learned the most basic of words, pieced together grammar as you untangled it. Growing in proficiency sentence by sentence, right?” He gets a faint nod. “It’s the same. A new language to be learned, a different method of communication. Where the simplest of aspects build the foundation for everything after. And if we’re to have success, I must know when you don’t understand. Or when I’m presenting material to you too quickly. Surprising, I’m sure, but I am not a born tutor.”

Murphy sighs, lips thin in annoyance as he slouches further, “This mean we’re starting over?”

Hans pats his shoulder, assuming an almost terrifying familiarity. “It does, tomorrow. For now just write your name.” He gets glared at. “Really, do it.”

With much grumbling Murphy takes the stick. Hans looks away, digs some of the grit out from beneath his nails until the scratching’s done. “Here.”

“Great. Murphy Stabbington, well done.” Hans pulls his crate closer, sets a clear piece of parchment beneath Murphy’s scrawl. “Use this to remember letters as you write. There’s nothing dishonest in your name, everything mostly makes its own sound, none of those silent consonants to worry about-.”

“Seamus has one of those.” Hans turns and Murphy meets his eye briefly, dropping back to the table almost at once. Perhaps he didn’t mean to say it aloud. “I think, maybe. The…the letters. It’s not like how it sounds.” He points to the second to last letter in his own name. “That, that’s not there.”

Hans hums, shakes out his hand and takes the stick, “Like this?”

Murphy only nods, reclaiming the stick. He doesn’t say who Seamus is, doesn’t say anything else that night, just copies Seamus out beneath Hans’ example, the marks less hesitant each time.

-

A mammoth burst of cold air, and Hans is awoken for the second time that morning. He is less nervous after a moment, Murphy’s broad frame shoving the door back shut. The wind is still audible though, a furious roar that Hans isn’t sure how he slept through. Murphy crosses to the stove, opening the gate and spreading his hands in front of the flames.

Hans rolls up on an elbow, rubbing his eyes, “Are you alright?” He can imagine no reason but injury for Murphy to return so early. He looks whole though, no observed limp or hesitancy of motion.

“No work today.” The wind rages louder, a breathy whistle through the cracks in the doorframe. Murphy slides off his boots, water streaming down the leather and pooling on the floor. “Foremen won’t go through the storm.”

Hans yawns and buries his hands back in his blankets when they begin to quiver. It doesn’t stop them, but is less noticeable. An unnecessary act, as Murphy surely knows well Hans’ various weaknesses. “Is it so bad?”

“Cold.” An understatement, if Murphy is admitting to it. “Snowing. Can’t see more than a stride any way you look.”

“Oh.” He’s never heard of the shifts being cancelled. It certainly never occurred when Hans was attempting his own survival. “Guess you’ve a holiday.” Murphy snorts, eye creasing in brief amusement. Hans yawns again and starts to maneuver towards verticality, “Are you hungry? I’ll-.”

“I’ve got it.” Murphy wets a rag and passes it over his face and hair, the snow trapped along the straps of his patch disappearing, “Go back to sleep. Know morning isn’t something you’re familiar with.”

Hans smiles faintly and curls back into his covers, “Propaganda, surely.”

-

Murphy has another holiday the next day. The day after as well.

A week passes and Hans stops cooking himself as large a portion. A few days more and he has no recourse but to lessen Murphy’s as well.

Every day Murphy dresses for work, extra fabric stuffed under his collar and cuffs. Every day he must fight through a mountain of snow piled before the door. Sometimes even the latch is frozen to the frame, taking more effort than should be necessary to thaw it. Hans doesn’t go back to sleep after the snow is shut back out, will sit in his corner and wait, the time it takes for Murphy to walk to and from the foremen’s cabin memorized.

Every day the door swings back open, and Hans has to refuse the anxiety spreading throughout his chest.

-

There are holes in the walls. Hans doesn’t know their exact locale, doesn’t dare take the time to seek them out the few moments when he is outside of his blankets. The draft is constant, delving through his meagre layers without pause, always his nose or his shoulder or the back of his calf somehow exposed no matter how he twists and burrows. The wind doesn’t always bellow despite its constant presence. Sometimes there is but the faintest whisper, the building layers of snow and ice unheard.

Murphy’s finally stopped braving the storm for work or anything burnable, his last three attempts failures. The stove has sat flameless for a week now, broken bits of a barrel sitting in its iron belly. They’d imparted no warmth, the lacquer too thick to easily burn, the air too frigid for flame to form. They’ve not sacrificed their clothes and covers yet, not yet been forced to that recourse.

They’re not far from it though, not if the weather holds.

Hans bites down on his collar to silence the chattering quiver of his teeth that he’s only then become aware of. Looks across to the indistinct shape of Murphy against the far wall. He doesn’t seem to be shaking, though maybe the distance and blankets cover it. Or maybe he is just less susceptible to it than Hans is. Just one more arena in which he proves the superior.

It’s a bitter thought, one Hans doesn’t entirely mean, no real ill will meant for Murphy’s strength and steadiness.

“Going to freeze over there.”

Except, no, not ill will, precisely, just…just suspicion is perhaps the closest thing that describes the clench of Hans' stomach, should he wish to give the feeling a more noble name than fear. Perhaps it is the cold, bringing forth his suspicions, but Murphy’s every insistence at joining him in the nest makes every muscle clench. Not that he does it so frequently, the last offer some days ago, when he’d returned again without food or fuel.

And not that it wouldn’t be the better option for survival. The only option of maintaining heat, if the snow and winds refuse to stop. Maybe Murphy’s offer is honorable, maybe he desires nothing but Hans’ ability to generate warmth, that they may both know less of the blizzard’s chill.

But still, maybe not.

Maybe Hans is a fool to fight it, to watch Murphy’s large hands in case they reach for him, to watch Murphy's feet in case they make to sweep away his stability. Surely if he appeared willing, if he could even muster enough theatrics to pass as eager, the pain would be less, perhaps even some consideration given to his own comfort and pleasure.

Hans almost laughs, chest seizing in it. How long has it been since he’s considered his own desire? At the possible pleasure of another’s touch? Maybe he’s losing his mind again, the tundra stealing his lucidity even through shelter.

Still, he has enough reason left to wonder at Murphy’s motivation. Either he is determined to know his letters and wants to ensure his tutor’s existence to complete the task, or he intends to find some last entertainment before the ice claims them both.

“Come here.” Murphy sounds irritated, so Hans stops resisting it.

He’ll be decently warm, at the least.

Hans gathers his blankets, the ends trailing as he traverses the freezing floorboards. There’s frost creeping from under the doorframe when he passes it, thin veins of feathery white that are barely paler than his skin. He drops his pile of fabric on the end of the nest, where only a few of the blankets manage to cover Murphy’s feet. The top has already been thrown back for him. Really nothing to do but slide in.

So he does, waiting every second for fingers to grab him, for a mammoth body to eclipse his own.

But nothing happens, Murphy on his side facing away after Hans gets in. He’s even moved over, the warm depression from his body silently gifted.

Hans exhales, his throat near closing and eyes burning with the extent of his relief. Then it’s impossible not to burrow further, to stretch his legs and let the aches in his back swell and dissipate.

-

Days pass and only a handful of rice remains in the sack, eaten grain by grain, hard bits sticking in Han's teeth. They don’t move very often, doing lessons submerged in the nest when they have the energy. Murphy can almost make all the characters now, tends to get confused on the small circular ones. Beyond that they are silent, lying either with their arms touching or facing away. The wind echoes like some majestic arctic symphony, the faintest whispers followed by great bellows of sound and pressure that shake the walls. It’s difficult to stay warm those hours. More and more often Hans will wake pressed against Murphy’s arm or back, his knees curled up like he can hold the meagre warmth available against his chest.

There’s one day that the walls never stop shaking, nearly in time with Hans’ hands, the fierce roar of winter disallowing any attempt at a lesson. Murphy forces Hans out of the blankets, both of them shivering on the floor while he layers the fabric, tying and weaving the ends in knots that Hans recognizes from his time in the navy, when the last sail would rip and they’d have no recourse but to sew and tie the tare.

The wind touches them less once they delve back in, less padding allowed from the hard floor though. Hans wakes more often, can never lie in one position for long before his body takes issue. Murphy is little different, his long legs forced to bend with the new confines of the nest, always twisting and flipping to find some temporary relief from his own aches.

 -

There, again.

Hans wets his lips, whispers, "Do you hear that?"

No response, not until Hans presses closer and touches a hand to Murphy's side, then, "Hmm?"

"Listen." Little though there is to listen to, the tundra’s symphony in repose for the moment. The wind is barely there, the fall of snow too muffled by all its previous layers to make any noise. Hans closes his eyes and tries to hear past the beat of his heart, hair prickling along his nape as his trembling fingers press the slightest bit harder against Murphy’s bulk.

But no, it's gone.

Maybe wasn't even there, nothing but Hans' paranoia and imagination to blame.

Murphy shifts, patting the hand on his side like he's comforting a nervous child, "Just the wind."

Ridiculous that Hans feels some relief at that, as if Murphy's words can't be but right. Beyond ridiculous, but still his blood seems to race less quickly, "You're sure?" A hum is Murphy's only response, already again submerged in slumber, his hand going slack. Hans doesn't remove his own, content to leech what warmth that is made available.

But the warmth doesn’t distract him, nerves again alighting now that Murphy isn’t awake. Pathetic that Hans’ sense of security depends on such.

There, its back. No doubt, again that strange sound. Like a rustle, almost, but not.

It's just so faint, so difficult to discern, lost between one second and the next as Hans’ blood rushes faster. Still he strains, can sort of-, no.

Gone again. A trick of his mind, perhaps. Nothing but irrationality to blame. Audible hallucinations brought on by cold and hunger.

Is this how his madness started, so long ago? Constant fright and frigidness forcing him to insanity?

There, again! But-, but is it clearer? Distinct now from the rising bellow of the wind. Such a difficult sound to place, almost like the whisper of shifting snow when Murphy would tunnel out from the door. Hans tries to calm, tries to resist the trembles of his hands. Just, it doesn't sound like wind. Too consistent in the level of sound, more precise and never wavering from its locale.

Then it’s nothing at all like the wind. An entirely different noise. Like...the tread of feet.

Then-, god, there's the quickened beat of someone running, the unmistakable crunch of snow, getting louder, it can't possibly be any clearer. Hans presses even closer, trembling fingers gripping so tightly in clothing not his own, " _Murphy_ -."

The door slams opens, a shadow spilling though, snow and ice cascading through the entrance way. Another follows the first and they scream so brightly, sprinting across the floor, but Hans can't move. Can't get up at all, his feet caught in the knots and weaves, under Murphy's legs, breath burning in his throat as the shadows get closer, yet _screaming,_ the wind with them, no light to see anything but the fearsome outline of their bodies. Still Hans can't be free, can't even think-.

Murphy roars, a fiercer sound never heard. The blankets rip as he stands, pulled apart by his mammoth fists and the indomitable strength of his legs. He tackles the first shadow, the screaming never stopping as they fall to the floor and roll. The long unused table topples, the chair too, everything so loud and bitterly cold.

And still Hans can't really move, his leg a vessel of agony from Murphy's weight as he leapt. So Hans tries to crawl, palms sliding in the torn fabric, a frozen fire against his skin when he touches the frosted floor, but the other shadow is already upon him. A hand fists in his hair, snapping his chin back, forearm bloodied when he parries the first touch of a knife’s unmistakable silhouette. He shoves his attacker away, tries again to crawl, but his ankle is taken and yanked, Hans dragged on his back.

The shadow kneels over him, Hans' arms pinned by thighs, everything about the shadow so frigid, hair encased in ice and frost as it falls down over them like a shade.

Hans can do nothing but writhe. Nothing but buck his hips and twist his body. The shadow is so heavy through, rides his meagre flails with ease, the knife still risen above, waiting the opportune moment before claiming his hair and slitting his throat. Hans wishes so desperately for his steel, or even the needle, has no recourse but to dig his ragged nails into what flesh he can reach. Such a pitiful effort has no effect and he tries to scream, but the sound refuses to come out, just like it does when he's dreaming, his lungs bursting with air that can’t escape. Just like Hans can’t escape now, not from this struggle, not from this iced hell. He's going to die, right now. Going to bleed out on Murphy's floor, naught but another body littering the field, skin gone blue and frozen, hair twisted into some sort of pagan trinket dipped in his own blood-.

" _Get off him_!"

Something flies through the air and slams against the shadow's head. It isn't enough but to stun them, arms falling, the point of the knife stabbing into the floor a bare sliver from Hans' throat.

Murphy is enough though. He fists a hand in the shadow's frozen hair and jerks back, pieces of it snapping off in his palm, the other hand coming around and twisting, the most horrid crackle of bone echoing.

Hans tries to remember how to breathe, can’t make but the barest of noise, water so cold against his face and lashes.

Murphy doesn’t notice, such ferocity to his face as he drags the shadows to the door, wind and ice lashing him. He takes the barest step outside and flings the bodies away as if he is a titan whose strength is never in question, the door ringing when he slams it back shut on Siberia’s fury.

-

The winds finally retreat and Murphy returns to labor.

Hans proposes to do the same, to not put so much strain on Murphy to keep them both fed. They’ve reached an odd plateau in their dealings with one another, currently at a point where Murphy only needs to sigh and quietly mutter his displeasure for Hans to roll his eyes and rescind the offer.

They lesson less, Murphy more exhausted after his shifts than Hans can remember ever seeing him. It isn’t surprising, his strength and muscles depleted, the work more difficult to breach the mine through the blizzard’s remains. He usually comes home and falls senselessly into the blankets, would not even eat if Hans didn’t wake him.

They dine together now. Hans doesn’t question it, mostly silent companionship that he enjoys too much. Still they sleep together, vague awareness waking Hans each morning as Murphy climbs over him and prepares for the day. He’s so sturdy, never once complains, no matter how much he must ache as his emaciated muscles are forced to regain their previous stature. Even lessened he is still so strong, as broad as he is quiet. Strange to think he couldn’t have found some escape on the caravan that brought him here. But maybe he was shackled. Maybe he was as weak as Hans had been.

It seems impossible though, that Murphy could ever have been so incapable and pathetic.

Again Hans wonders at his need of literacy, wonders even more at the rasp of an opened barrel and the crinkle of parchment he can sometimes hear in the early morning when Murphy thinks him still asleep.

Still, they coexist so effortlessly now, no argument offered when Hans takes it upon himself to start mending Murphy’s clothes, using pieces of his own to strengthen threadbare socks and patch gaping seams. The rice sack slowly gains heft again, Hans still only making himself half portions. A low awareness of hunger assaults him as constantly as the pain of his feet, but to do otherwise would be irresponsible when he provides nothing. Deadly even, should another storm come. It seems contradictory to his condition and hunger, but Hans’ constant shaking lessens. It’s not much of an improvement, hands still quivering when he first wakes, a constant tremble that still won’t stop entirely. But it’s less, though the severity will always resume by evening, or if Hans does anything strenuous. Depressing, but the word has a different meaning than it used to, cleaning the floor or emptying the stove near depleting his energy. He has to rest for so long after even a short walk outside, sometimes moves around the shack on his knees to not distress his feet.

Despite the guaranteed pain of later he’s outside now, the wind lashing his hair and the sun bright in his eye. Those that man the forest have returned for the day, but still there is a noticeable lack of individuals out. Hans has to be careful when gathering snow or climbing a bluff, has more than once uncovered the frozen remains of those unable to weather the blizzard’s might.

He feels a strange power and security, even walking the main thoroughfare. The other convicts fear him, will hardly meet his eyes once they see his hair and realize who he is. It is undeserved surely, Hans did nothing but cower when he was attacked some months before. They whisper though, hidden behind their hands like Hans won’t notice, quick words floating on the wind of the demon he’s seduced. Of the awaiting death for any who dare strike him.

He can’t but laugh aloud when they name him a witch.

The children are the only ones who don’t look away or disappear. They don’t touch him, respect forced by their playmate’s death. Hans still isn’t sure how she died. Maybe infection took her, the clansmen hardly the epitome of cleanliness. Not that Hans can claim much better, but at least he doesn’t let sweat and grime build so deeply on his skin as to have a greasy sheen in the light of day.

Red bird is still the children’s insult of choice, gesturing and shaking their hands at him in imitation of his frailness.

Still, Hans finds his situation immeasurably improved. Pitiful, that he must measure such improvement in a lack of molestation and hunger. Realistic, though. He rests against the edge of the cook’s porch, breath clouding as he surveys a land that once forced him to madness.

“F-Father?” It’s out before he can stop it. The hair stands up on his arms, a physical shock pushing through his blood.

But-, but no, it’s not.

It’s not but Hans runs forward, near stumbling in his haste, feet protesting, “Father! What are you-.”

It isn’t his father.

Or course it isn’t, Hans is just a fool. A…an amazingly pathetic fool, has to be to really think the reflection of himself in a building’s window could possibly be his father. Just, the hair, the shape of his eyes, the…the scraggly length of a beard across his jaw and throat. Hans hadn’t even noticed, not really, touches it now with trembling hands. It’s long. Long enough to pull and straighten with his fingers. If-, if he twists, like this, then…then there it is.

Exactly like his father.

Breath tight, hands fisting, nails not drawing blood only because of the cloth covering his palms. He, he can’t-, this isn’t right. Hans wont’ look like this, like that-, that man!

 -

Hans has to quit that.

Murphy’s tired of his blood racing every time the door slams open. He glares over his shoulder as the wind is shut back out, ready to snap. But instead he gets to his feet, tensing at Hans’ wide eyes and heaving breaths, legs trembling from whatever he ran from, “Someone bothering you?”

Hans looks over, still pressed against the door, seems oddly surprised. An over-wide smile takes his wind burnt face, “Murphy!” He comes forward, pushing his bangs behind an ear, “You have a razor, don’t you?”

“...Aye,” Murphy admits slowly, sitting back down. He retakes the stick, tracing the letters he doesn’t know so well. “Have a need of it?”

“I do, yes,” Hans is still grinning at him, something wooden in it, his eyes creased like Murphy could be made to feel his enthusiasm. If that’s what it is. “Would you terribly mind my borrowing it?”

Murphy stops working at his letters, glances back at Hans’ face then away just as quick. Something strange about him. “Suppose not.”

Hans steps near, his smile hard to look away from when Murphy’s foolish enough to turn his head, “I would appreciate it, so greatly.”

Murphy swallows, something…stirring. “Not with how your hands are.” Hans’s eyebrows curve up, an argument on his tongue, one Murphy doesn’t feel like listening to. “Fine, just-, just get up here and sit still.”

Hans hops onto the table immediately, that same grin on his face as he waits for Murphy to get the razor and a cup of water.

Isn’t really a proper razor, just a clean enough blade to get the job done. Murphy’s been using it since he got here, can’t stand the irritation and itch of a spreading beard, no matter that he’d likely be a mite warmer in the mines. Hans might dislike it just the same, though he’s waited awful long to do anything about it.

The hair at his chin is long enough that Murphy just gathers it in one hand and saws through, a course bunch of burgundy that he throws on the table. He wets the blade and gets scraping under Hans’ chin next, little studs scattering. Not the most pleasant thing, only water to smooth the way, a redness already growing as Murphy moves up to his cheeks. Doesn’t hurt that bad though, shouldn’t be enough for Hans to be tearing up like he is.

Maybe his skin is just sensitive from being outdoors, “This hurt?”

Hans looks up at the question, eyebrows lifted like he’s surprised, “What? No, not at all.” Murphy doesn’t buy it, he’s yet got the proof making his fingers moist. Hans must see his disbelief, brows furrowing, water running down the crease of his nose, “Well, it’s a little uncomfortable, sure, but nothing unbearable.” Maybe he feels the slide of it then, the itch of dropping water, rubs at one eye with his palm, jerks it down like he’s shocked to feel moisture there.

Then Hans just looks furious, lip lifted and teeth flashing. Nothing near as sweet and easy as he looked before. He wipes at his eyes with the flat of his hand, “Sorry.” Murphy doesn’t need an apology, just gets nervous when he’s making someone cry without knowing why. He stays his blade a moment too long, Hans dropping from the table, fire in his face like he’s spoiling for a fight as he jerks the knife away, “Lord, fine-.”

Murphy takes it back from him quick, holds Hans still with a firm grip of his chin, “I got it.” Hans crosses his arms, jaw clenched and eyes low. What he’s so angry about is a mystery. Best thing to do is to keep going, and Murphy tries, quick sweeps that reveal strips of white flesh.

He shouldn’t have said anything. Hans is upset now, the tremors getting worse, enough that Murphy isn’t too confident that he can keep from nicking him. The tears haven’t stopped, makes it difficult to grip his chin well. Making it difficult to act like Murphy isn’t more confused than he's been in a good long while, “Could finish it later-.”

“Please.” Something twists in him at that voice, soft and miserable, “Please, Murphy, I just want it gone.”

Murphy doesn’t stop again, scrapes until the skin is reddened and bare.

-

The tundra is again a monotony of hours, the bugle’s call the only staple of time, though even that varies with the foremen’s hangover. Two more caravans replenish the ranks in the following weeks, malnourished creatures with fearful eyes filling the places of those lost to the blizzard’s might. There are no more holidays, Murphy worked longer each day than ever before to make up for the revenue and time lost.

Hans cannot completely dispel the guilt that wells in his gut when Murphy leaves every morning, nor when he drops another handful of brown grain into the sack when home, such a meagre amount earned after each day of labor. There is so little Hans could do though, pathetic in his relief when Murphy’d kept him from returning to the forests. He dreads thinking on those long marches, the constant snap of whips and wind, the indiscriminate beatings and molestation. Likely he’d not survive it, no matter that he is left alone in the settlement, little more than a shout needed to wake the rage of his demon.

Still, he wishes there was more he were capable of, past the domestics of dinner and mending.

Hans actually manages such one day, tossing his prize to Murphy as he comes home, “What do you think of that?”

There's a moment's pause as his offering is considered, “...Where’d you get it?”

Hans can’t help but grin, accomplishment such a foreign thing. “Don’t worry-.”

“Think I will.” Murphy’s brow is low, his jaw stern and clenched. He sounds so annoyed too, but Hans knows better. Murphy hasn’t looked away from the potato, touching it with both hands now, “Like to know if I’ll have to keep an eye out for the cook coming after you.”

“You won’t.” Hans hangs his coat, crossing quick to the stove. “There were some unattended crates behind the kitchen. These were the only thing I could sneak away.”

“These? There’s more?”

Even were there not Hans doubts Murphy would share the one he has, an excited possession in his usually stern face. “A few.” The heat is painful on his hands, little needles of heat that spear his flesh, “Enough for you to have that one to yourself.”

Murphy glances up at him, seems confused, “You don’t mind?”

As if Hans wouldn’t relinquish every potato he ever came across to content his one protector here, “Enjoy.” Murphy immediately takes a bite, the starch snapping as a piece breaks free. Hans watches him quietly, almost amused.

Murphy is so less intimidating with such obvious pleasure on his face.

-

A few weeks later Hans relinquishes the last potato when Murphy can write every letter without a stumble.

Murphy grins at him then, so pleased and bright, so different than Hans is used to. So different that he has to busy himself with gathering snow for the morning, the wind giving decent excuse for the red of his face.

-

Hans wakes.

It might be night yet, maybe day. There’s no light leaking through the curtain anymore to tell him. Neither is there a soft glow from the stove. He yawns silently, thinks on getting up to bother the coals. He should while they’re still able to be relit.

Can’t seem to find the motivation.

Just…Hans is relaxed. Comfortable to a degree he hasn’t felt in a long time. He stretches some slight amount, becomes aware of an arm beneath his head, the line of Murphy’s chest against his side.

Hans stiffens.

He doesn’t need to, Murphy yet asleep, his chest moving in long pulls of his lungs. Even his blood Hans can feel, a faint pulsation against his head where it rests in the dip of Murphy’s elbow. He becomes more aware, feels every point of contact. The slight bend of Murphy’s legs, his knees pressing against Hans’ thigh. The warmth of his stomach against Hans’ forearm. Such security as Hans doesn’t remember feeling since before he knew there were things in the world worth being frightened of.

Though they have shared a bed for months now Hans has never felt so close to Murphy. It is the lateness perhaps, maybe the lingering drowsiness, but he finds some courage, decides to be closer.

He lifts his head first, the barest amount, shifting it sideways until he is facing Murphy’s throat, pillowed on his bicep. Then he presses up from the blankets briefly, nerves starting to awaken his quivers, shifts over so that there is a line of contact the length of their bodies. Hans reddens in the darkness, knows what Murphy will think if he awakes. And… and Hans might not eschew such thoughts these days, but his purposes are different at the moment. Much more innocent in nature. More pathetic, surely.

His body, he angles up, rolling part way onto his hip, bracing on a trembling wrist behind him. He feels more of Murphy now, the heat of him incredible, the bulk of his body a strange reassurance. Hans holds his breath, listens to the deeps breaths flowing past his hair.

Still asleep.

Hans moves the rest of the way, presses against Murphy’s chest, slides so that he’s tucked as close and warm as he can. He holds still, so still, nerves clenching his stomach. His hands, he has to fist, the trembling more pronounced, his chest and throat going tight, face flushing-, oh, there-, Murphy’s awake, his body tensing, he-.

Murphy breathes deep, rolls some, curling one knee higher, hooking over Hans’ legs. Then his mammoth arm comes down, over Hans’ shoulder, warm and heavy, the blanket pulled taut over them.

Still wonderfully, amazingly asleep.

Hans goes lax, breathes easy.

He still shakes though, his fingers a constant reminder of his frailty. His weakness. Hans presses them against Murphy’s sides, wills them to stop.

Murphy is just so warm, seems so solid and together beneath his layers. Hans shuts his eyes, curling his fingers in the fabric. Lord, what he would do to be so collected again. To know confidence and the strength of his sword arm. To be more that a slip of flesh and hurt, to be capable of protecting himself, protecting others. To be more than a shoddy tutor at the frozen extent of the world.

Here, beneath Murphy’s weight and warmth, Hans pretends like he could be more. Just as he used to with his toy soldier, imagining himself strong and capable while hidden under the blankets, the soldier tucked against his chest.

He used to imagine his soldier wasn’t a toy sometimes. Was instead a man so tall and strong that none dared challenge him. A man with ebony hair and dark skin, a smile so warm and constant that Hans could never feel anything but content and safe. A man just like the Lord General of the Southern Isle’s army. He’d never smiled so just for Hans, surely never saw him, but the soldier did. Every night, when Hans was becoming more a man and less a boy, the soldier would smile in his mind and hold him close. So very close, and tell him everything was alright, that he was worthwhile and wonderful, and that someday everyone would see, and no one would lock him in closets or pretend he wasn’t there, or tuck him into the sheets so tight at night that he could hardly breathe.

Hans hasn’t had his soldier in a long time, in years. He can’t remember what happened to him, not exactly, just has a vagueness of memory that appears when he tries to think about it. Of Menke and Franco, the youngest of his brothers. He remembers crying, desperate frightful crying, and them laughing, and…and the scent of lamp oil, of fire so hot it flickered blue and white and-.

And Hans presses closer, makes Murphy his soldier. If only for now, for tonight. He will move away before morning, must, but not for a while. Not while his chest is so clenched, a sour sadness pulsing through him. Hans doesn’t make a noise, makes certain of it, but he shakes worse. So very worse.

The arm over him sleepily tightens, and Hans wishes then with such desperate feeling that Murphy were really his.

That Murphy would want to be his.

-

“No.” Murphy doesn’t like this story. It’s stupid and long and has a lot of those letters that don’t actually get said.

“Yes, or I’ll write something harder out.”

Murphy crosses his arms, scowls. Hans isn’t bothered by it, doesn’t even see it. Is sitting in bed pretending to know how to crochet from the remnants of a torn blanket. It’s something long, wider in some spots than others, edges curling in a way that Murphy’s pretty sure isn’t intentional. “What’s that again?”

Hans lifts a brow at him, doesn’t look up, “It’s going to be a sweater.”

“Looks like a-.”

“Yes, like a strangled stork, you’ve said so twice.” Hans sounds annoyed, is looking at a hanging bit of yarn in some sort of confused suspicion. “Now read.”

Murphy mutters under his breath, grabs the book rougher than needed. Calling it a book is a stretch though, isn’t more than some yellowed papers bound with thread that Hans bartered from one of the vultures that are quick to go through a corpse’s pockets. “I’m starting after the damned bird-.”

“Before the bird,” Hans interrupts. Murphy glares over, is spitefully glad to see he’s having trouble with his hook. It’s nothing more than some wires Murphy grabbed him from a fence post, twisted over and around itself into something passable to work yarn with. It’s not stiff enough to keep its form though, the hook likes to bend over or close up in the midst of using it. “Get past it without a fight and I’ll let you stop.”

Murphy looks. That’s only five pages of it. The corner of one crumbles some as he presses against it.

He sighs.

“There…was a-, was a gi..ian-, giant candle in the sky. But it was unlit. And the wah-, the wo…hol, the wahol-ee, the-, the…”

“The first letter is silent,” Hans says just as Murphy’s about to tear the thing in half. He’s still staring at his stork, doesn’t see the flush of frustration and embarrassment in Murphy’s face.

“The…whole,” Hans gives a brief hum, and Murphy knows he’s right, “world was dark.”

He’s nowhere near done with the first page, not even to the next chunk of letters. He wants to stop already, even as he stutters through the arrival of the Grand Raven, fire in its beak to light the world. He knows this story, heard it often enough as a child. It makes it all the more frustrating, knowing what should be happening but struggling so much to translate it from little lines and dots into something verbal.

Hans doesn’t help him, not until Murphy’s tried at least twice, and then he only gives a hint. Hint after blasted hint until something catches in Murphy’s head and he can mumble through. And mumble is about the only thing he does when Hans makes him read. Tongue seems like it swells up twice the size, clumsy and thick behind his teeth as he forces out sounds that don’t seem like words until he’s gone and mussed the whole thing up. He’s slow, so damned slow, and he feels like naught but an oaf. Some unlearned hick from the backcountry.

Seamus doesn’t sound like this when he reads, can run through a letter like it’s the simplest thing. Words quick and unstuttering when he reads aloud. There’s not much Murphy doesn’t like about himself. He’s his own man, knows he’s got his own skills, things Seamus can’t manage so well. This, though…

It’s not something that used to bother him much. Murphy’d been sick most the year they’d started learning their letters, can’t remember much past being too hot and in pain. The next they’d been on their own, and Seamus had always been there to read what needed it, never pushed it in Murphy’s face that he couldn’t tell one squiggle from another.

He’s not got Seamus now though, won’t even see him again if he can’t get these letters to make sense.

“-and the old pe…peha-, pehase, pahase-.”

“Your name. Those two letters that don’t sound as they look.”

Murphy swallows, is so tired of this story, “The dark became light and the…the old phase passed into new.”

“Well done.” Hans is smiling up at him, even his eyes creased, as though Murphy hadn’t just spent near thirty minutes on a story every child knows before they know even their own name.

He’ll take that smile though. Will take it and remember it for when he won’t see it anymore.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Hans is nervous, no matter how hard he tries not to be.

Murphy’s gone. Not gone forever, only for today and the next two after, but still. It-, it’s just that Hans hasn’t been so long by himself in a while.

He wants to do something, no idea what, more restless than he’s felt in months. The floors are as clean as they’ll ever be in this frozen waste, the stove emptied just the other day. Naught that needs mending, little of it here even if it did. Murphy layered more than usual before he left, Hans helping him stuff cloths around his neck and ankles.

Hans has heard nothing but the difficulty of the Terik when listening to the miners talk, a crevice that apparently takes the majority of a day to even walk to. Murphy’d not said anything himself, not past how long he’d be gone. Had only mentioned it last night at dinner, that and a gruff command to board the door after he left and not wander.

Isn’t really anywhere to wander even if Hans had the desire, his feet a fire more than usual lately. They prickle even now, submerged in a bucket of already cooling water, Hans too impatient to let it warm thoroughly. He puts his hands out to the stove from his seat, letting the warmth bleed through his fingertips and bathe his palms, the long sleeves of one of Murphy’s leftover shirts hanging from his bony wrists.

Just can’t seem to get warm today. He couldn’t even manage any more sleep after Murphy left, kept twisting and turning in the blankets but couldn’t maintain any sort of comfort or heat. He’s not far from putting his coat on, no matter that he’s already smothered in extra fabric. But Murphy’s shirt isn’t as thick as he’d hoped, nearly as threadbare as Hans’ own attire, the seams weak and hardly held together. The weight is comforting, but he’s still chilled.

Hans sighs heavily, flipping his hands to warm his knuckles, surprised his breath doesn’t cloud in the air. He pulls his arms back, folding his hands together in his lap, noting some blood on Murphy’s cuff as he does. He isn’t too worried about its origin, can’t imagine Murphy isn’t occasionally forced to violence when thrust among other individuals of enough strength and breadth that they are required to labor in the mines.

He leans forward and spreads the coarse fabric in the water above his feet, scratching at the red stain with his nails. It flakes and disintegrates slowly, the remnants of the stain mostly hid in the shirt’s dark pattern. Murphy probably won’t even notice when he comes home, the entirety of his clothing so mottled and dirty.

But perhaps he would like if they weren’t so soiled.

Hans bites his lip, wringing his sleeve out in the bucket. Can’t think it would go over badly. Might have to keep the stove a bit hotter to heat enough water, might use more wood than is generally needed. Still, Hans isn’t a fool, wouldn’t go overboard. The water need not even be entirely warm. Even the slightest attempt would likely have a grand effect on any of Murphy’s clothing, even on the stagnant pile they’d claimed as a bed.

Buckets aren’t hardly big enough though. Could maybe take the blankets outside, spread them on the long hill beside the shack, scrub off what grime he could with handfuls of snow and ice.

It isn’t a pleasant thought. Hans steps out of the bucket, feet making small puddles on the floor as he walks to the window. He pulls back the repaired curtain, nothing but lines of frost and the ever present paleness of the tundra greeting him.

Difficult to let the idea go though, motivation welling from some long untouched place. He can’t just sit here until Murphy’s back, should show something for it. Some visible gratitude for the shelter and food he’s allowed. He needs some sort of vessel though, something that can hold enough water to do the job proper. Hans fogs the glass when he exhales, soon turning back and spreading his hands before the stove.

There’s just nothing to manage it, no matter his desire to be useful.

Other than the barrels.

Hans spends a moment considering it, turning towards the wall of them and folding his hands behind his back.

-

The blankets take so long, and are so very dirty. Hans has to replace the water often, spends more time shoving snow in a bucket than he does actually washing. Warmth isn’t so difficult to come by either, sweat building behind his neck and under his arms as he maneuvers great swathes of soaked fabric.

It’s a mindless task, difficult to focus on. Difficult to not delve into his own thoughts, skin prickling and pruning as his hands constantly cycle between warmth and snow. Not that Hans isn’t used to being his own intellectual stimulation. Few of his brothers ever managed any patience for his conversation as a boy, the only recourse to dive into academia or hide behind his mother’s throne, listening and pretending to comprehend the intricacies of politics.

He’d been caught by her advisors more often than not, scolded and sent away, no matter that he’d not made a sound, had just wanted to be near, to hear her talk of taxes and pretend like she were talking right to him.

Hans can’t remember a time she ever did though. He tries, his tight brow reflected in the dirtied water.

He…can’t.

Waste of time really. Hans clears his throat, leans forward and puts more effort into kneading a blanket. Wouldn’t really matter if she ever did say anything. Surely wouldn’t of been anything worth hearing.

His knees are sore when he finishes the bedding, his back too. He spreads the blankets over the table and hangs them as far as he can reach on the walls, stoking the fire as high as it’ll go. Sleep takes him as he rests at the table, his shoulders and neck protesting when he awakens the next morn and stretches. He starts again, has to rest so often, the day gone before he knows it. Eating doesn’t entirely rejuvenate him, the howl of the wind making him lethargic and nervous. He spends the night emptying the barrel and filling it with fresh water but falls asleep before he can start any clothing.

It’s midday when he finishes everything. He feels energetic enough to step in the water himself, washing sweat and grit from his greyish skin, hair longer than he ever remembers when he dunks his head, the damp strands long enough to tie a string around. Afterwards its rather novel to be so clean, dressed in fresh clothing, though they’re still some measure damp. Murphy even has a squat stack of clothes that now feel more like fabric than grimed canvas. The blankets are slowly drying, nothing to do but relax and enjoy the fruits of his labor.

Not even dark yet and Hans is already thinking about tonight. How exquisite it will be to lay in unsoiled blankets, how grand it will feel next to Murphy's warmth.

Hopefully Murphy will enjoy it. He might feel some measure relaxed after working so hard and long.

Murphy will be quite dirty, actually.

Filthy. Grime and dirt encased on his skin, sweat and dust greasing his hair.

Hans looks at his clean blankets, brows curving up. Then he looks back to the wall of barrels, spies a large one, a smile curving his lips.

-

Settlement’s finally in sight.

Murphy sighs, puts his head down and keeps on.

One foot, then the other. Seems like he can feel every beat of his heart pounding through each. The harness cuts into his chest, makes it hard to take a decent breath. Feels like the wagon’s whole weight is on his shoulders, no matter the three others lashed to the beams. Heavier than it was last time he signed up for the Terik.

Fool thing to do, volunteering for that much soreness.

He’d been restless though. Restless and bitter, tired of staring at a creased scrap of paper, the letters as foreign to him as the chatter between the native folk.

Got a new letter in his pocket at the moment, travel stained and crinkled. He’d only had a moment to skim it when the foreman slipped it to him, nothing in it that he could see about things coming to a head.

Not got too much curiosity about it at the moment. More worried about seeing what state the shack is in.

It’s not gone unnoticed that he’s got a housemate, snide comments heard from those with enough courage to make them. Enough attempts to barter with him for a night of Hans’ time to make Murphy blacken some eyes.

Wouldn’t have signed up for the Terik if it hadn’t been for that blasted storm. Murphy likes having a back stock of wood and rice, difficult to build that up when there’s two people involved and only one working.

Not that he’d let Hans go back if he tried. No need for it, not when Murphy’s twice as healthy and got enough of a reputation to keep them both from being bothered.

Hopefully, anyway. Repute don’t mean much when he’s a day away.

But Hans is fine, better be. Should be, if he didn’t get a wild hair and decide to take a stroll.

Murphy eases his hands when they fist around the bars of the harness, forces the tension out of his shoulders. Hard not to get riled thinking of Hans out and about, a moment from tripping over his still-healing feet, barely any muscle on him if someone decided to get rough.

Murphy closes his eye, has to stop thinking about it.

He’s distracted enough in a few minutes, getting unstrapped from the wagon, hovering silently behind the foreman until he gets his allotment of rice and wood. He weighs the sack in his hand, not as heavy as it should be for two weeks ration. He’s not the energy to protest though, just takes his armful of wood and starts towards home.

He doesn’t relax until the shack is in sight, and then only a little. Door isn’t beat in. Too dark to see if there’s any smoke coming from the roof pipe. A few minutes more and he can discern a faint glow behind the curtain, chest finally unleashing some. Doesn’t mean much though. Could still be someone in there, Hans dead on the floor or wishing he was.

Murphy quickens his pace, hard as it is, and goes around the corner. He gets snow pushed off the pile and gets the logs stacked. Has to stare at it for a tired moment before packing snow back on top, was decently sure they hadn’t been that low.

Doesn’t hear anything inside, heart beating quicker, tries the door and knows some annoyance when it doesn't go. Ridiculous, he’s the one who told Hans to lock it, but he’s nervous and tired and about ready to break down this fucking door-.

“Hold on, don’t wreck it!” He can breathe again, everything going loose in his back, almost ready to drop by the time Hans gets the lock off. “God, you look frozen!”

Murphy hasn’t the energy to do naught but grunt, gets over the threshold. Gets the lock done up tight and steps further in. Not got any thoughts past getting his boots undone and letting his body stop moving.

Has to pause though, eyebrows high when he spots a barrel full of water in front of him.

Turns to Hans, sees something self-satisfied in the curve of his thin lips, “Warm as summer, on my word.”

“Made me a bath?” Sounds gruff, the first words Murphy's bothered with since heading out three days ago.

 Hans puts his hands behind him, like Murphy won’t see the trembles. “Thought you might like it.”

“A bath,” Murphy says again, hasn’t…hasn’t had one of those since before he got to the tundra.

Hans smiles wider, what Murphy recognizes as a mask for his embarrassment, “I, well, I’ve heard the Terik is the worst, and a three day shift, that-, that’s nothing to laugh at.” He looks tired. Not as tired as Murphy, but still. Enough that he’s shaking again. He looks away after a second, shoulders high and tense, likes he’s awaiting his lumps. “Silly, now that I think about it. Sure you’d rather something warm to eat. Just a minute, go lie down and I’ll-.”

“Not hungry.” It’s not even a lie. Murphy’s still too cold and beat for his stomach to care much about anything. His throat feels better though, the warm air moist and smooth as he breathes. Doesn't mean he's got any sort of motivation to do anything but sleep.

Hans doesn’t look any less distressed, puts a hand through his dark copper bangs as he chews his lip.

Murphy fights with himself, finally just sighs and crouches down to start working on the laces to his boots, “Gimme a hand.”

He glances up and sees the grin that splits across Hans’ face, the one that shows for no reason but that he’s pleased, hidden when he turns away to grab a rag off the table.

Smile's gone when Hans turns back, something softer and less obvious in place.

Murphy scowls at his laces, his fingernails unable to find any leverage against the frozen threads. The rag blocks his view then, sodden now, steam coming from it. Hans pushes his fingers away, takes over no matter that his own are still shaking. Murphy leaves him to it, straightening and stripping off his coat, tossing it away in front of the door. He’ll hang it later, or tomorrow, or whenever. Too tired right now to care if it gets frozen to the frame. Has no cares past getting this over with so he can just fall down in his blankets.

The laces are thawed quick, pulled loose with sharp tugs while Murphy gets his sweater off. He works on the cloths tucked into his collar and cuffs, lifts his feet obediently when they get tapped. They feel strange outside the confines of his boots, stranger still when his stockings get yanked off. Hans works fast, is already tugging at the wound length of rope that works as a belt while Murphy’s yet struggling with getting his shirts overhead. He doesn’t bother getting them separate, just yanks and jerks the three of them off all at once. He feels something give in the fabric.

He’s shirtless then, covered in what must be more than a year’s worth of grime and grit. Murphy scratches his chest, feels rank and soiled when dirt and body-filth gather under his nails. He looks at the water while Hans keeps up battle on the rope, is maybe a tad intrigued by the thought of a soak. Would rather it not be in a barrel of mud, which it will be if he hops in the way he is.

His hips rock forward as Hans keep up his attempts, but the knot isn’t budging. Hans likely hasn’t got enough energy in him to get it free from three days of sweat and dirt. Not enough strength yet. He looks determined though, so Murphy waits. He rests a wrist on the edge of the barrel and moves his fingers through the steam.

Maybe this won't be so bad.

He turns back when he notices Hans’ head suddenly very much lower. Feels sharper tugs, can see where Hans has his teeth sunken into the top bend, his eyebrows furrowed and furious.

Murphy laughs.

He smothers it quick, pushes Hans off him and gives the knot a fierce jerk.

It comes undone with Hans scowling, “I loosened it.”

“Course.” He gets a scowl too, and Murphy snorts, is smiling some. He doesn’t bother stopping.

Pants unclasped, and he kicks them aside. His leggings and shorts follow, and Murphy really is disgusting. No way he’s getting in there like this.

Hans looks up from kicking the dropped clothing in a pile, an eyebrow up when Murphy grabs the rag and a pan full of water, stepping back to the door. “Murphy?” He gets a bit alarmed when the door is opened, “Murphy! That’s outside, hey-, _Murphy_!” He looks scandalized that Murphy’s standing outside with naught but a rag to cover him. Got to have some breeding to him, the blood high in his cheeks, “Murphy, there’s people out there!”

There’s no one about, not that Murphy’s so modest as to care. He shuts the door on Hans’ outraged face, dunks the rag and gets to scrubbing as best he can.

The water dirties quickly, a dingy pool of grey and grit when it gets dumped on the ground. He needs another to do it any justice, turns back and grins when Hans throws the door open, a full bucket in his arms, his face redder than the wind has ever made it, “Would you hurry, Murphy, really?”

All the grime is loose now, a majority of it running off when Murphy upends the bucket over his head. He whips his hair up out of his face, finally lets Hans pull him back in after most of the water is done streaming off.

Murphy doesn’t waste any more time, climbs over the edge and sinks down into summer.

It’s hot like he hasn’t known in so long. There’s steam in his face, climbing through his nostrils, curling down in his lungs. Warmth soaking up through his callouses and skin, seeping in his muscles and making a rough groan echo from deep in his chest. He’s not as comfortable as he could be, has to keep his legs bent, feet going up the sides instead of lying flat. But that’s fine, especially when the water near covers his whole chest.

This is nice. So aggravatingly nice. Murphy’d forgotten what being this warm felt like. What being even this moderately clean felt like. Makes it difficult to care how much wood got wasted for this sort of heat.

Makes him wonder how often he could reasonably do this.

He cracks his eye open at the rustle of cloth, watches Hans hang his coat. There’s that smile on his face, the one that says that’s he immensely pleased with himself. He puts fingers through his hair again, the trembling more pronounced. Murphy looks down his legs, to his wrapped feet. Wonders if they’re any better. “Hey.”

Hans turns, his smile less pronounced now that there’s attention being paid to him, “Yes?”

Murphy leans up and reaches for one of the other barrels. He doesn’t recall what’s inside at the moment, just knows it’s light enough to maneuver around, to pull up flush against the one he’s in. Water splashes out, but not so much that Murphy cares. He jerks his thumb over and Hans comes, an eyebrow up.

He passes the barrel, doesn’t apparently get what Murphy’s getting at. But he only goes as far as the stove, pulls another pan from beneath.

Murphy lets him pour it in, water ghosting at his shoulders now, grabs him when Hans turns away. “Get up. Warm your feet.”

“What?” Hans seems surprised, his arm quivering in Murphy’s grasp, though he knows that’s not nervousness at the moment. Hans just smiles, pats the hand like he’s amused, “It’s fine, enjoy-.”

“Up.” Murphy tightens his grips, leans up like he’ll just lift Hans if he has to. He gets a laugh for it, his shoulder shoved, and then Hans gets himself sitting on the lid, rolling his cuffs up his calves. The strips of fabric come next, the stockings beneath following, and then Murphy can see how pale he is.

So unhealthily pale, dark veins snaking across the top. Faint compared to the deep discoloration on the balls of his feet, a swatch of mottled blue and purple that stretches to his toes. Murphy takes them in hand under the water, presses against the darkened skin with his thumb, like he’s being casually rough. Hans doesn’t say anything, lets him do as he likes without complaint, but Murphy notes where the skin tenses in feeling and where it doesn’t.

“Seemed better, I thought.” It’s not fake cheer in Hans’ voice. There’s honest optimism, clear expectation that everything’s fixing up proper.

Murphy doesn’t ruin that, “Yup.”

Then he gets up, dripping all over, gets a scowl, “There won’t be any warmth left if you keep splashing it out.”

“It’ll last.” Murphy plans to be in that barrel until he’s soaked up every bit of heat left. Right now he’s shoving the table over and lifting the barrel back so that it’s within arm’s length of the stove, smirking at a muttered comment about excessive strength. It’s a strange thing to do, since Murphy isn’t usually a showoff. That’s more his brother’s racket.

Hans drops from his barrel when he gets gestured, doesn’t hide the pained hiss very well when his bare feet impact the floor.

Murphy doesn’t take the moment to glare at him, just sets the chair atop a crate. He keeps everything shoved to the wall to keep it steady, the barrel of water pressed against the front. Then he gets back into his slice of summer, jerks his thumb behind him.

He gets a strange look, but Hans goes with it, as he goes with most things. He gets sat, is at a high enough level that the only comfortable spot for his legs to go are over Murphy’s shoulders. “Is…is this alright?” Murphy doesn’t bother answering, just reaches back and grabs at Hans’ feet, pulling them down, “Just give me a moment-, hold on!” Hans yanks back on his cuffs, manages to get them rolled past his knees before Murphy stops caring and pulls.

The warmth lasted. Is even better for the few minutes Murphy spent outside of it. He doesn’t have to recline his neck on the hard rim anymore either, Hans’ stomach a decent cushion when Murphy leans back between his thighs.

They don’t speak for a while, steam swirling around them, dancing with the air currents sneaking through the door frame.

This works. Works well in his opinion. Hans seems to agree, the tense muscles of his legs going soft quick enough, especially around where Murphy’s hands are circling them. Even has his own back rest now. Murphy can feel when Hans finally relaxes against it fully, his thighs stretching on either side of Murphy's head, knees falling wider.

Can almost forget where they are like this.

The steam is gone after a short while. The warmth recedes in small steps after, but Murphy has a remedy. He doesn’t open his eye, just taps at Hans’ ankle. “Hmm?” Hans grabs the pan from atop the crate when Murphy tells him, laughs for some reason. “I guess it will last.” He leans forward, his stomach a pressure against Murphy’s head, gets a scoop full of water and sets it on the stove.

He doesn’t sit back, is a faint presence Murphy can feel above. Still doesn’t look. Knows what’s there. A sharp nose, a faint scattering of freckles around it. Green eyes that always remind him of the spring sea.

He does open his eye a second later, feels a touch ghosting at the straps of his patch.

Hans pauses. Leaves his trembling fingers where they are, “I’ve never seen you without.”

Murphy shrugs. Hans has actually, at the time was more occupied with screaming and swinging a knife at the wind to notice. “Curious?” He lifts an arm out to grab the pan. Could’ve left it longer, but the infusion of new warmth relaxes the muscles that went taut in his neck.

“No.” The fingers move again, the flat of Hans’ thumb running against his brow, “But I can’t imagine you left it on all the time before I was here.”

Murphy frowns, feels the fingers more as his brows furrow, “What’s that to do with it?”

Hans gives his own shrug, bangs hanging low over his face, past his nose, casting them both in soft shadows, “It doesn’t look comfortable.” It isn’t. The cords press indents into his skin, collect sweat and grit no matter the time of year. They irritate him at night, a persistent itch that only gets the worse he if scratches.

Murphy doesn’t say any of that, setting out another pan of water. Doesn’t say anything at all.

Hans must find some answer in the silence, his fingers pulling at the knot. A moment later and Murphy can feel the slackness, a strange coolness left behind when the cords are pulled through his hair.

The patch is off then, and he can feel a ring of sweat and dirt left behind. “Nasty.”

“Disgusting,” Hans agrees, and Murphy feels like laughing again. Hans hasn’t even glanced at the hole in his face, eyes instead on the patch, lip lifted at where it dangles from his hand. “I can’t believe you willingly wear this.”

Murphy snorts, splashing water on his face to get the dirt gone, “Got used to it. It’s usually cleaner.” It gets tossed away on the floor. Murphy doesn’t mind, thinks pleasantly on not wearing it so often. He only left it on the last while out of habit, figured it would put Hans off to see the sunken skin, same as it does Seamus.

He expects a question, people always curious, but Hans doesn’t offer any. Just pushes his hands through Murphy’s hair, all over his scalp, rubbing at the indentations in his skin. It makes Murphy tense, though he’s careful not to tighten his hands around Han’s ankles. Might scare him off. He doesn’t mind the touch, hard to complain when someone’s rubbing the ache out of your skin, but it’s strange.

This whole thing is strange.

Hans pushes Murphy forward, upends the pan over his head. Murphy lets out a deep contented noise at the new heat, hasn’t felt so fine in so very long.

 

[art by hhavenh](http://hhavenh.tumblr.com/post/102164388945/unhewn)

 

They get an hour out of it, nothing more said between them, not until Murphy makes to take care of the barrel but instead just gets shoved and nagged over to the bed. He is surprised to find something clean to dry and dress in, notices that the pile of fabric they sleep on has seen its own bath. It has to have, the ever present odor from months of sweat and dust gone from the blankets. Hans kept himself busy while Murphy was off keeping them fed. It makes him smile, still yet tired enough not to keep it away. There’re no damp spots, everything dry and softer than he’s sure they’ve ever been.

It doesn’t take long for him to get comfortable. He gets curled on his side, burrowed in with all the blankets feeling light and thick, all the dirt and compression beat out of them. Murphy sighs, is just so annoyingly comfortable. He can’t let Hans do this again, at least not for a while. Just can’t work the Terik every week to keep them in that much wood.

The sound of the barrel gets him opening his eye. Hans is messing with it, trying to walk it over to the door no matter that the whole of him is trembling like leaves in a storm, “Quit it.”

“I’ve-, heh, I’ve got it-.”

“Leave it. Sleep.” It says something about how they interact now that Hans doesn’t even react to the bite in his voice, just flips his hair back like Murphy’s no more dangerous than a firefly. It says something more that Murphy falls to petulance to get his way, “Don’t make me come over there, just got comfortable and all.”

Hans grins, pushes his hair back again, “I’ve got it-.” Murphy doesn’t even say anything, just lets something whinny and long echo from his throat, same thing Seamus used to do when there was naught but one bit of chocolate left. Hans just grins wider, eyes averted like Murphy won’t see the amusement there. “Fine.”

A quick poke of the fire, a wrap of his feet, and then Hans slides in where Murphy’s holding the top blanket up for him. He does his maneuvering, seems as warm and soft as everything else when Murphy curls close and shuts his eye.

-

“Who is Seamus?”

Murphy grunts, is apparently not as awake as Hans had thought.

“Seamus,” Hans repeats, sticking his feet back in the blankets. There’s some movement and then his heels are tucked against Murphy’s side, an arm heavy and warm over his ankles.

Murphy’s been home from the Terik for a day and a half now, hasn’t done much but sleep. It isn’t so bad, pleasant even, to have him there every time Hans looks over, the blankets already warm when he went to bed last night. Just silent companionship that Hans enjoys more than he ever thought he might.

Another heavy exhale, Murphy’s chest moving like a grand wave at sea, “Brother.”

Oh.

Hans unfurls his toes when he notices that they’ve curled, presses them a little firmer against Murphy’s wonderfully warm bulk. It’s always difficult to determine how to respond. He knows-, rather, he thinks that his experience with siblings isn’t the norm. “That's...well, I see.” He feels awkward, but Murphy doesn’t look at him strangely or respond past a low grunt. “Does he know you’re here?”

Murphy nods, lifting an arm to scratch at his chest. He looks like a new man now that he’s not caked in grease and grime, his hair likely soft if Hans had the courage to put his hand through that ginger length.

“Got any?”

Hans looks away from the definition of Murphy’s chest and shoulders, “Hmm?”

“Siblings.”

“Oh, yes, a few. Twelve, actually.”

Murphy whistles softly, “Seems a tad much.”

Hans can’t disagree. Has ever been labeled as superfluous. Unnecessary and unwanted. “I suppose.” He’s often wondered the point of his birth, of why most of his brothers were conceived. Rumor had it that he could’ve been a fourteenth prince, even a fifteenth, quick application of pennyroyal the only reason otherwise.

Hans’d asked Derik once why mother hadn’t done the same when she’d been pregnant with him, some juvenile hope yet in his mind that maybe she’d wanted him, or perhaps that father had stayed her hand.

Derik had only shrugged, murmuring that she hadn’t noticed in time for it to matter.

“Why’re you here?” Hans starts at Murphy’s voice, begins to pull back his feet, hadn’t meant to bother him, but Murphy presses his arm down harder and curls his fingers around the back of Hans’ ankle. “Quit. Meant what you did to get brought here.”

“Oh, well,” Hans hesitates, which, ridiculous. Not like it would change Murphy’s opinion of him. Surely it’s little worse than what he already expects. “I…I attempted to overthrow a kingdom.”

Murphy’s eyebrows elevate, “Where at?”

“Arendelle, I don’t suppose you’ve-,” Murphy shakes his head. “Small country on the North Sea. The ruling family is kin of Corona’s queen.” A furrow of his brow, but otherwise Murphy is quiet, gesturing Hans on with a roll of his wrist. “I…went to Arendelle for the new queen’s coronation, and attempted a coup.” It sounds so academic, as if it wasn’t his hands that held a sword to a monarch's throat. “I had intentions of being wed to the sister, and then dispatching the witch.”

Murphy cracks an eye open, interest in his face, “What witch?”

“She-, oh, sorry.” It’s difficult to consider her anything but now, when everything around Hans seems laced with her frigidity. More difficult to tell the tale coherently, the circumstances of his imprisonment ever in the peripheral of his thoughts, it being difficult to imagine anyone unfamiliar with them. “The queen of Arendelle. A witch that holds thrall over the winter.”

Murphy grunts, eye falling shut again, as if an individual holding sway over forces of nature is so commonplace in this world. “Sounds like a decent story.”

“Hah.” Hans grins, though he doesn’t feel so much cheer as he pulls his sleeves over his trembling fingers. “Not so much. More a…a miscalculation.” More than that really. He feels some compulsion to explain, to lay bare his mistakes and vanities. “I-, I didn’t plan properly, was…was too ambitious, perhaps.” Strange that Murphy is forcing him to honesty from nothing but his presence, would not even suspect it should Hans make his own transgressions appear less as the words begin to flow like a long dammed river.

It’s difficult to label himself as a transgressor, to see his actions in anything but a righteous light. Everything in him resists. 

No reason for the resistance though. What have his ambition and thirst for esteem gained him?

An inability to still his hands.

The near incapacitation of his feet.

An almost entire deterioration of his strength and body and mind.

“-and…and I was immature, rash even.” He looks to the floor when he realizes his words. Rash was always his father’s favorite word to temper any and all attempts at innovation. “I attempted to kill her, but the sister intervened. And now...,” he sighs, shoulders falling as he listens to the wind’s whisper, “Well, now I am here.”

“Why’d you do it?”

To have the resources to make something of himself. To put into actuality the grand designs that have colored his dreams. For recognition as something other than his pedigree, as something beyond a surplus son. “I wanted a place of my own.” Though he desires that less at the moment, counts himself more content than he’d ever imagined existing in another’s territory. He is decently warm and fed, can sleep without fear of being taken by criminals or ice. And he is safe here like he’s rarely been, under the protection of a man whose anger rages like a spiteful god if Hans is ever bothered.

It’s difficult to be not warmed by that. Difficult not to continue, Hans’ desires and familial frustrations pouring out like an overfull kettle. And it’s wonderful how Murphy just listens, doesn’t laugh or tell him he’s a bloodthirsty fool. Such a strange experience, one he’s never had but with Sitron.

Oh, sweet Sitron. How long since he’s seen her? When was the last time he had discourse with a creature that loved him beyond his faults?

More than a year, at the least, the arithmetic too depressing to contemplate. Hans can’t…can’t think of her and maintain any claims to composure, not that Murphy would care, has already seen him at his very worst. “Enough of my incompetence though.” He has to clear his throat, fingers quivering worse in his sleeves, “What grand deed allowed you passage to such a wonderful place?”

Murphy snorts, stretching again, the blankets pulled taut across his chest and thighs from where it is held immobile beneath his feet, “Not half so interesting as your story.”

“I’m sure I can manage to be entertained.”

It's wonderful hearing Murphy laugh, such sudden cheer in his face, “Not enough that I keep you housed and fed, eh?”

Hans smiles, “I don’t mean to be hard to please.”

“Sure you don’t.” Murphy’s quiet a moment, his thumb rubbing vague circles on Hans’ ankle. He probably doesn’t realize he is, though Hans is content not to inform him. “Took the Lost Princess’ tiara for a stroll around the countryside.”

“Murphy! That was you?” Hans shouldn’t be so excited, pressing harder against Murphy’s side. He’d been terribly amused when a pigeon bore news of the thievery. Corona’s ambassador had ever been haughty and proud of the tiara’s value, had droned on endlessly of the grand lengths taken to maintain its security.

Mother had been amused too, now that Hans thinks on it, the slightest entertainment in her eye when the missive had been read aloud at dinner.

“Aye, I had a hand in it. Didn’t get far though.”

“Come now,” Hans insists, bending his knees and coming closer, happy to keep his feet pressed against Murphy’s flank, “I know the story that Corona sticks to, surely yours is much more honest?”

Murphy huffs out another laugh, finally begins his tale. He’s such a grand voice, low and deep like an undersea cavern. Hans could listen to it endlessly, will sometimes prod Murphy into reading aloud just for his own enjoyment. He imagines pressing his ear against Murphy’s chest now, would in a moment if he could, feeling the vibration of every sound, the articulation of each letter. “-not sure exactly how it happened, was locked up at the time, but Rider somehow got the tiara and girl to the palace. Suddenly she’s the Lost Princess and he’s saved his head from the block.”

Hans frowns, “You keep saying Rider, but Corona’s heir is wed to Eugene Fitzherbert.”

Murphy waves a hand, clear displeasure on his broad face, “Fitz-whatever, Rider, either way he’s a backstabbing bastard.”

Hans can’t help himself, leaning forward and grinning, “I'm surprised you’re so offended, I've always read that there is no honor among thieves.”

Murphy shoves at him, scowling, “Don’t know what a murderer would have to say about it.”

Hans grins wider, the corners of his mouth protesting, “Come now, attempted murderer.”

“Hah,” Murphy finally sits up, humor and light in the depth of his blue eye, “Suppose I’m only an attempted thief then.”

Hans laughs, such cheer in him as he’s rarely felt, no reason why, “Fair enough.”

-

They’ve developed a new routine. Or really, Hans has begun inviting himself along when Murphy sets out to do a cord for the foremen.

The sun is out as they do one today, a usually absent brightness forced on the settlement. It lends no warmth to the air, just makes Hans’ eyes water in time with the wind. He doesn’t need the warmth so much at the moment though, sweat beading on his brow as he sets logs for Murphy to split.

It’d go quicker if he just sat back and watched, the quiver of his hands and his meagre strength surely a deterrent to efficiency. Probably would go quicker if he’d quit arguing too. “-and it’s not because I’m here now, no matter what you think.”

“Right-.”

“It is right,” Hans insists, blood rushing through his limbs quicker as he sets another log. “A vast majority of criminals are a product of environment. Create an environment where the vices that smoothed their way to a life of crime are removed, and there will be little, if any, need for imprisonment.”

Murphy refuses to believe this simple truth, but seems to finally be in a mood to argue back, “Bullshit.” He splits the log, picks the halves back up and splits them again, “You’re born to be what you are. Man steals because he’s a thief, he fights because he’s a thug.”

“Nonsense.” Hans and his crimes are not without nuance, and surely Murphy is no different. He didn’t skulk into Corona’s palace on a lark, couldn’t have taken the tiara just to cause grief. He’s too kind. Hans is comfortable naming him as such now, sometimes has to laugh at himself when he considers his early terror. “There are some individuals of that character, granted, but most criminals do not turn to crime as anything but a believed necessity to better their lot in life.”

Hans …can’t really say that about himself. He's some measure uncomfortable realizing it.

“Still not taking your point.”

“My point,” Hans huffs, straining with an ill-sawed round, oblong and so blastedly difficult to maneuver, “My-, my point is-.” He can’t verbalize, has to put forth all of his lung power into breathing as Murphy takes the log from him, clear amusement in every line of his face.

It’s the last one, thankfully. The walk back is longer than the way there, Murphy lessening his pace at Hans’ inability to keep up. He limps the whole way to the shack, a grip around Murphy’s elbow the only thing that keeps him upright, his foot like a thing of fire at the barest touch of the ground.

They’re hardly in the door before Murphy prods him towards the stove, “Sit, tired of you walking on it.”

Hans does as he’s told, content enough to prop his feet by the fire and lie back on the floor. Murphy towers over him then, more than usual. “Do you think it’s still winter?”

Murphy pauses in latching the door, looking behind him with his brows furrowed, “Do I think it’s still winter?” He opens the door a sliver, wind and snow swirling in, “Right now?”

“You’re hilarious,” Hans informs him, pulling his sleeves over his hands. “I meant elsewhere. I…I don’t know what day it is, not even what month.” It’s softly chilling to be so unaware, to realize the rest of the world has continued unabated while Hans hungered and hurt and froze.

Murphy grunts, getting the lock set, “About half way through June.”

Hans leans up, in the midst of determining the least painful way to become vertical, “How do you know?” There’s not a calendar anywhere that Hans can see, and he’s not the inclination to ask a foreman.

“They’ve upped the shifts on logging.” Murphy taps a finger on Hans’ forehead on the way past, sets about making them dinner. Hans lies back down, head pillowed on his hands and the faintest contentedness rising in his chest. “Don’t tend to do that until it's summer elsewhere, getting the stock ready to ship come autumn.”

It’s a degree saddening to realize Murphy must’ve been here for some years to have learned the seasons by intensity of labor. Unfair really, that he’s forced into such backbreaking work in the mines for naught that nature has bequeathed him such strength and stature. Never complains though, rising every day with nothing but a stretch and a groan.

Never even speaks of how Hans does nothing to contribute. Even his tutoring isn't anything of note, Murphy nearly wholly proficient in letters now.

Hans sighs quietly, closing his eyes. He’s been useless his whole life, can't really claim surprise that he still is.

-

They can’t wait anymore, according to Murphy. Hans can’t disagree, doesn’t really know. It’s just his toe, the smallest on his left. Everything else is fine. He thinks it is, at least. The discoloration is gone, the skin beyond pale where blue and purple used to exist. Hans can even feel everything, to an extent, even with the toe Murphy tells him has to go. At least, it seems like he can. Hans understands the reason of course, they’ve already fought back the frost once when it tried to spread.

The moon is yet out when they leave their shack, the sky taking on the muddled dark blue of a withering night. He doesn’t ask why it needs to be done so early, is entirely content with not having to do this alone. Murphy is as silent as ever beside him, almost a different man in the moon’s pale light.

They stop outside a shack not far from the foremen’s cabin, Murphy not even knocking before pushing Hans across the threshold. It is hardly any warmer inside, dried poultices hanging from the rafters, jars and bottles stacked three deep on the counters and shelves. A woman with a shaved head comes out from behind a curtain, doesn’t look at all surprised to be intruded upon. Her skin somewhat reminds Hans of home, of the nomadic traders that would set stalls in the markets. The sunbaked golden-brown of their flesh had always drawn more eyes than their wares, uncovered to their waists as they’d twirled and flipped to the twanging strum of a long necked bouzouki.

She doesn’t smile like they did though, the end of an unlit cigar crunched beneath her molars. Doesn’t look like she’d even know how.

That’s fine though, hardly matters when Hans isn’t here for her company.

“You set?” Murphy's voice startles him, so sudden and deep. Hans makes to respond, snaps his mouth shut when the woman drops her chin in a nod and turns away. She jerks a thumb over her shoulders, the intent clear, so Hans approaches a table long enough even for Murphy to lay comfortably upon. The wood is cold under his fingers, feels even colder when he hops up on it. He has to still his hands when he notices that he’s wringing them, fingers clenched painfully tight. Which-, he’s being silly. Everything is fine. Nothing to worry about. Not at all. The woman looks competent, seems hardly bothered by the prospect of-, of amputation.

And Hans isn’t bothered. At all.

Not even the smallest amount. It won’t get infected, surely. He won’t be back here in a matter of weeks because it’s gone badly, because his whole foot has started to rot. Hans pulls at his collar, “Are you warm, Murphy?” And the air, it’s _gone._ It must be gone, no other reason for his lungs to be working so hard. “Murphy?” Where-

-

Murphy lowers him to the table with one hand while he shakes the sting out of the other. Hans will wake with a headache, likely, “Won’t keep him out for long.”

Ted chews on her cigar and pulls a jar from a cupboard. She dumps something on a rag and tosses it. “Over his nose.”

It doesn’t take so long to get the toe off. Murphy’d rather not watch so he doesn’t, instead braces his hands on either side of Hans’ face and stares down at him. He’s so pale. All of him is, like there’s no blood in him. Like a skeleton whose skin didn’t know enough to fall off. Makes Murphy nervous sometimes, when Hans is lying in bed, not the slightest twitch, like maybe he’s been dead hours and Murphy didn’t even know. He can’t always curb the need to check, will stretch his arms and his legs out over far, will wait until Hans mutters in drowsy irritation and proves he’s yet among the living.

Gets cold so easy too. Not that Hans will ever say it, or do anything about it other than tucking himself in close to the stove. Not much Murphy could do if he did complain. Only so much wood he can bring home. Only so much work he can do.

Maybe it’ll be different with the toe gone. Won’t be a piece of ice clinging to him anymore, sucking the warmth from his skin.

It’s off in barely any time. Murphy hears when the bone separates, doesn’t look up. Just watches Hans’ eyelids, how the shadows of his lashes splash down his face.

A moment more and Ted’s got it wrapped, the bandage dim against Hans' paleness. “Leave it,” she says when Murphy moves to grab the rag, “might as well pay while he’s out.” Murphy scratches at his chin while she locks the door and ducks past the curtain. Hans doesn’t twitch, his lungs barely moving. Murphy shrugs off his coat and drops it over him, tugging at the knot of his belt as he walks away.

Ted’s not his type, for as much as he has one. Too much of a scowl in her face for Murphy to ever really know if he’s doing what she wants. He’s pretty sure he isn’t what she wants anyway. Got her eyes closed as Murphy joins her on the pallet, hand bothering one of her own nipples through her shirt while he gets settled between her legs. Cold in here, colder than Murphy keeps his own place. He doesn’t bother with more than getting his pants undone and his shorts shoved down, leans up on an arm to get himself in a proper state.

Been a while since Murphy fucked proper. Since he’s done more than rutting at somebody against a wall or just taking himself in hand while Hans is out pretending to be recovered. Figured it wouldn’t be so hard to get it up. Ted isn’t helping, looks about as interested by all this as Murphy is for all that she suggested it.

Still, he agreed. Needs to show something for it. He’s not one to leave debts.

Head down, eye closed, Murphy works at getting his fire stoked. It’s not usually this difficult. It’s just…just that Hans isn’t off somewhere else. Seems wrong, somewhat, thinking on him like this without the distance. Murphy can’t say why, just-, it’s just he’s here, right through that curtain, with those thin lips and dark freckles, red hair falling around his head like a crown of fire-.

And that’s got it. Much as Murphy feels awkward thinking on him when he’s so close, that’s what works.

The only thing that’s worked at all lately.

Ted doesn’t say anything when he grips the back of her thighs, lifting her up so he can slide in. Her eyes are still closed when he looks, shuts his own since it doesn’t matter. The pallet is hard on his knees, barely any cushion between him and the floor. Not like how it would be in Murphy’s bed, blankets around them like a nest as he pushed Hans’ legs further apart. What little blood Hans had high in his face, mouth red and eyes wild. His cock stiff and sliding between them as Murphy held him down, rough fingers digging into Murphy’s skin, pulling Murphy’s hair, saying Murphy’s name like it’s the only thing he’s ever known-.

“That’s it,” Ted grunts, muscles in her legs going loose even as she swells and shudders where they’re together. Murphy waits her out, doesn’t move, doesn’t think, just lets everything even out. Doesn’t bother finishing, it’s not what he’s here for. The cigar is back in her mouth as he climbs off, lines less pronounced between her eyes.

Hans hasn’t moved, doesn’t until Murphy reclaims his coat, face turning to the side. The rag falls off and shows the point of his nose, the line of his throat.

Murphy shuts his eye, grips his fingers tight on the table edge. Let’s everything settle.

Hans is as light as ever over Murphy’s shoulder, limp the entire way home. He murmurs once when he gets put down, quiets when his bangs get smoothed away from his forehead. There’s a knot growing behind his ear, will be tender and swollen soon. Maybe it’ll hurt enough that Hans won’t be a fool and will stay the day in bed. Can’t be a bad idea to give his foot as long as possible before bothering it.

A glance past the curtain tells him it’s past time to leave. Sky isn’t too light, should be able to catch the end of role-call.


	4. Chapter 4

The shelf is his goal, where lies his attempt at crochet. Hans clenches his jaw, rising from the chair, arms away from his body. He exhales shortly, forcing his fingers to remain unfurled when they attempt to fist. “Once more,” he murmurs, taking a step, balancing for a long moment on his good foot.

He is calm.

He is capable.

He will walk to the shelf without a single-, _no,_ he’s waited too long, already about to go sideways. Hans puts his other foot down quickly, can’t find the chair when he waves his arm back for it. He’s-, good Lord, he’s already about to go over, takes another step, but not correctly, too much pressure against the still healing gap on his back foot, such fire and pain jolting through. He leans back, tries to reach for the table, but no. Too late. Hans manages another quick inhale as he falls, the floorboards slamming against his palms and knees.

“Blast it,” Hans snarls, so-, _so tired of this_. He is not some crawling babe! Some gimped invalid! He has lost the very least of what he could have, and again he is waylaid, dysfunction ever a constancy.  What manner of fool is he that this so eludes him? Had he lost his foot, even his shin, then Hans would understand. But this-, this is nothing! There is no reason for him to be so continuously robbed of balance.

But here again he is on the floor, his foot so sore and aching, even a migraine burning behind his eyes. It’s been days since he woke without a toe, at least three, no reason for him to so constantly fall, as if being ambulatory is some new phenomenon in his life. “This will end,” Hans grits out, pulling himself vertical with the table’s support, his knees aching as he again gets to his feet. “I am better than this.”

Is he though?

Perhaps this is what he deserves, to be so constantly on his knees when he’d thought himself so superior. Surely this is just the pathetic culmination of all the mistakes he’s ever made. Hans can name them all, has had endless time to contemplate every single instance of foolishness in his life, Arendelle only the most recent and disastrous of them. Every moment before, asinine dreams of eminence, constant thoughts to prove himself capable and actual, a cultivation of the meaningless desire to prove himself as an individual beyond his blood.

The very fact of his existence is a mistake, every breath he takes unintentional, every beat of his heart a delinquent act.

How…how immeasurably improved he would be, the world would be, if Hans had never even been born.

His arms shake, such a burn behind his eyes, and Hans can’t even try anymore, can’t…can’t do this. He turns away and doesn’t even make an attempt, just crawls into bed and hides his face in the blankets.

-

“Argh!”

Murphy chews his rice slow, some hardness yet in the grains. Should’ve let it sit a time longer. He doesn’t comment when Hans pulls himself from the floor again, hands clenched around the edge of the table. Just kicks out the crate, glares until Hans takes the suggestion and sits.

Hans glares back, doesn’t hold it though. Soon enough he’s staring down at his foot, elbows on the table and hair clenched between his pale fingers.

Murphy sets his rice aside, “Come on.”

He pats his knee but Hans pushes to his feet instead, walking away on his heel, Murphy’s bowl in his grasp, “Told you it wasn’t ready.”

Murphy sighs, though Hans doesn’t pay attention, busy throwing the rice back in the pot, a splash of water on top. “Let me see it.”

“You don’t need to see it.” There’s nothing soft about Hans today, hasn’t been since he lost a piece of himself. Something that Murphy has had experience with, even if he doesn’t recollect it the best. Been years since he lost his eye, more than he’s bothered to recall. Can’t even remember what it was like before he had to turn his neck to see to the left. “The only issue is incompetence.” 

Murphy wouldn’t agree, but Hans isn’t exactly in the mood to ask his opinion, “Humor me.”

Hans laughs, something dark in it, “How so?” He whips around, color high in his face, such flaring anger in the depth of his eyes, “A song, a dance, what would please you?” He’s louder on every word, more a snarl in his face than Murphy’s ever seen. “A jig, a ballonchio, why not the Reigen? Surely that would be enough that you might find some entertainment!"

Murphy stands and moves out of the way when Hans grabs at his sleeve, likes he’s actually going to make Murphy dance, “Don’t get yourself riled for no-.”

“I will do as I please,” Hans hisses, the table creaking when he slams his palm against the surface. “Though humoring you is apparently my current mission!”

“Just stow it,” Murphy barks. He doesn’t know how to deal with this. He can’t just snarl and get his menace on, not when Hans forgot to be afraid of him months ago.

It’s a mistake, does nothing but stoke the fire hotter, Hans’ face as red and furious as a harvest moon. “Fine!” He turns away with his hair whipping around him, hobbling to the wall and reaching for his coat, “I’ll not inconvenience you further-”

“Hey!” Murphy gets to his feet, grabs the back of Hans’ sleeve, “What-.”

“Unhand me,” Hans demands, his hobbled gait nowhere near as authoritative as his tone. “Get off!” Murphy doesn’t get off, just puts an arm around Hans’ chest and lifts, the barest effort even needed. Startling to feel how light he is, Murphy’d thought he was eating better. Not the time to get into it at the moment though, Hans trying to wriggle free, cussing as eloquently as only those with some breeding seem to. Still, can complain as much as he likes, but he’s not got the strength to do naught but vainly kick his feet until he gets dropped in the nest.

If someone’s to leave it’ll be Murphy. He won’t have Hans out as he is, no clearer target in all the world than a slip of a creature that can’t keep his own feet.

-

There’s a bowl set out when he comes back, floating in hot water on the stove. Murphy makes short work of it, the grains warm and soft. It tides over what hunger he riled doing up a cord of wood for the officer. The only light is what comes through the vents, a flickering red glow that shows the shelves tidied and the floor swept. An obvious apology, for all that Murphy doesn’t need one.

He looks over, spies a softer bit of darkness among the blankets that will be Hans’ hair. The slackness of his face grows clear as Murphy’s sight adjusts. He looks to be asleep. Looks barely there, really. His lank body hardly a mound in the blankets. Maybe he’s always been so slight though, Murphy worrying on nothing. Thin as a twig but mayhaps that just how he’s built, no room inside for muscle and fat.

Tundra’s never kind to folk like that, a toe the least of what Hans could’ve lost. Maybe that’s what he’s so irate about, realizing just how frail he is. Just how easy it’d be for him to be another corpse buried under frost and snow.

Hardly moves when the blankets are pulled back, just a heavy breath through his nose as Murphy gets settled beside him. Murphy would think him dead if not for that, the small movements of his lungs, the barely there tightening of his brow.

Must have exhausted himself, still a slumber when Murphy touches his hair, ghosting across where the long length pools in the blankets. He gathers some in his palm, petting down it with his thumb. There’s nothing so soft on the tundra as this, nothing that seems so full of life and color. Nothing that makes Murphy so relaxed as putting his fingers through these dark copper strands. Not that he’s got the opportunity for it much.

Still, Murphy will enjoy it while he can, reaches further into the depth, could touch skin if he stretched the barest bit further. There’s such a coolness to his hair, just like the rest of him. So devoid of warmth, no matter how high the stove gets stoked. Hard to imagine how he lasted as long as he did on the tundra by himself. But maybe that’s what did it. All of him near used up when he first got to Siberia, drained so far and deep that he’s still not anywhere near hale. Will never even be whole now.

Murphy exhales heavily, letting the strands fall. Won’t be so out of sorts forever. Hans’ll get over it once he can walk proper again. Doesn’t mean he’ll be any warmer though. Only thing that Murphy can really aid him with right now, so he comes near and puts an arm over Hans’ side since it won’t be noticed.

Easy enough to blame it on sleep if any comment is made in the morning, though there’s never been one before.

-

Short looks, the fewest of words for the past days. It’s like they’re strangers again and Murphy’s about sick of it. There’s still dinner on the table when he gets home, though Hans doesn’t eat with him. Will instead sulk on the crate or in the blankets messing with the sweater that’s still more of a stork. Murphy didn’t even get a chuckle the last time he made a comment about it. Hans had just sighed and set aside his hook, pulling the rows out with his quivering fingers.

Murphy’s breath expels in a cloud as he sighs, the shack in sight now. He gets a better hold on his armful of wood, jaw clenching with every other step. He gets the logs stacked, doesn’t have the patience to get snow packed back over it, just hurting and tired and hungry.

Hans is standing by the window when Murphy comes across the threshold, mood easier to see with his hair corded behind him, “...Evening.”

“Mm,” Murphy grunts as he leans back against the door, wind whistling as it gets shut out. There’s a steaming pan on the stove, a cup of water on the table. He’s not gentle with his coat and scarf, barely taking a moment to hang them. Tries to keep the weight off his left as he makes for the chair, a billowing ache surging every time he takes a step.

Hans notices, such annoyance in his pinched face, like he’s expecting Murphy went and did this on purpose. Doesn’t even say anything, just crosses his arms and glares once Murphy’s sat, fingers tapping haughtily on his forearm.

More difficult than it ought to be for Murphy to keep amusement from his face. Likely would just annoy Hans the more.

Not so hard to keep his face straight after a moment, the ache flaring once the muscles in his leg go loose. Boot off, stocking yanked down, and he can finally see the damage. Looks worse than it feels, a mammoth bruise blossoming out from his ankle.

“What happened?” Hans’ voice is low, a measured roll that does nothing to mask his irritation.

Murphy waits a moment until he’s sure he won’t smile, hard as it is when Hans is in such a mood for nothing but a little hurt. “Was standing on the cart track.” Fool thing to do, barely got out of the way in time. “Was distracted. Didn’t hear it coming until it was nearly on me.” Lucky it was only his ankle that got hit. A mite slower and he’d have a broken leg. Be hard to keep them fed like that. Harder to keep the shack protected from any that might try and take advantage.

Hans is still hovering when Murphy glances up, arms crossed and eyes narrow, “Does it hurt over much?”

Murphy takes his time getting his leg propped on the crate, breath hitched a tad more than the pain actually warrants, “Be fine by morning.” He’s never seen Hans so silently annoyed, cheek bitten like he has to check himself.

A moment more and Hans turns away, hand gripped tight around the table rim as he goes to the stove. Soon enough there’s a steaming bowl under Murphy’s nose, making a snap as it hits the wood, “Eat.”

Murphy doesn’t argue, lifting the bowl to his mouth as Hans hobbles away to glower out the window. Still walking on his heel. Do himself damage if he keeps that up. “Let me see it.”

Looks as cold as winter when he glares over, nothing friendly in his eyes, “I thought you were eating.”

“Finished.” Isn’t, but Murphy still sets the bowl aside, dropping his foot from the crate and gesturing. “Quick look, promise.”

Hans isn’t enticed. He goes towards the shelf, his gait so strange, “Parchment and pencil then, if you’ve such energy.”

Bah, Murphy’s not got any sort of patience for parsing squiggles tonight, just wants to know whether or not he needs to have Ted come and take a look, “Just-.”

“You don’t need to see,” Hans insists, color rising in his face again, annoyance in the clench of his jaw.

Murphy doesn’t say anything more, just crosses his arms and leans back, shoulders falling in a sigh.

Hans isn’t in the mood for it, shoves the parchment back on the shelf, an anger to every movement, like Murphy’s concern for the hole in his foot is such a strange thing.

But maybe it is. Could be that he’s not used to another person having a thought to his comfort and health. Seems likely with what he’d divulged weeks ago. Strange for a family to function like that. Couldn’t even take a fall as a brat without Seamus scowling. And Murphy can still remember the day he wrestled with the baker’s daughter and broke her nose, just because she’d been throwing rocks at Seamus’ face and made him bleed. That’s the way of kin though, as far as he knows.

Maybe that changes when you’ve got some breeding. Hans hadn’t told him much past being the spawn of some foreign noble or other, but apparently they do things different wherever he’s from.

Seems a mistake, if this is the result of it. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Oh, don’t,” Hans snaps, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes like that was the furthest thing from his mind. He hovers a minute, eyes yet narrow, finally just sighs like he’s the most put upon creature under the sun. He comes over and drops onto the crate, such a glare on his freckled face, “I hate you.” Doesn’t act like it though, just huffs again and finally stops resisting, lets Murphy take his foot in hand, muttering something quiet and full of irritation.

He can mutter as much as he likes so long as he’s healing proper.

Looks to be, if Murphy’s any judge. Still so pale, almost blue in the right light. Looks tender, hardly a surprise with as much as it’s been bothered, but not worse than it did last time Murphy got a look. Still scabbed and a bit jagged, but no scent of rot. “Getting there.”

Hans snorts, “Of course.” There’s such a sharpness to his bearing, eyes narrow and lips thin, looking down on his foot as if he’d like nothing more than to take an axe to it. “Told you it was fine.”

“Will be fine if you leave it be.” Murphy wraps him back up, gentler than he usually is, pressing his palms against the cloth, warming Hans up as best he can. Still so cold. Seems like the only time he’s warm is in bed, and even then Murphy still feels like a lit brazier next to him.

Hans just lifts his lip, “If I could lay claim to even the slightest competence, it never would have been an issue.”

Such an angry creature, more spit and fire to him than there ever was before. Maybe this is how he was before getting to the tundra, before meekness was the only way to survive. “Isn’t because you’re an idiot.” The impulse to pull Hans against him and touch his hair is strong. Nearly stronger than Murphy is. “Have to find a new way to walk. Could’ve lost any other toe and you wouldn’t be having such trouble.” Murphy rocks to his feet to put some distance, taps a foot on the floor, “Little one keeps your balance, tells your foot when to stop going sideways.”

“If ever there was one thing,” Hans snaps, his words quick and curt in increasingly familiar irritation, “that I’d hoped to comprehend decently, it was the management of my own mobility.”

Isn’t more that Murphy can offer when Hans is in such a temper. So he just shrugs, yawning as he limps to bed.

It’s a while before Hans follows. The floor gets swept again, the stove emptied, the laundry folded and stowed away. Never so active as when he’s riled. Murphy watches through his lashes, sees every stumble, hears every hissed curse. Eventually Hans just gives up and puts out the lantern, his tread heavy and uneven as he comes to the blankets.

A moment more and Hans is next to him, arm twisted under his head, curled up on his side. He’s so tense, words so low in the darkness, “I…I don’t mean to be so difficult.” Murphy just grunts, really isn’t bothered by it over much. He’ll not complain when it passes though. And it will, eventually, but for now the wind is howling so he just pulls the blanket up higher over them in preparation for a cold night, and Hans must feel like he’s been forgiven because the whole of him finally relaxes against Murphy’s side.

-

This ends today.

Hans’ fingers clench around the edge of the chair, eyes narrow. Slowly he pushes upright, knees aching, his foot burning, teeth ground together so tightly. To be so continuously incapable cannot be tolerated, not when the shack might be breached at any moment, not when his very survival could depend on the swiftness of his retreat. Murphy’s survival too, really. He’s too loyal a creature to leave Hans behind after pledging his protection, could fight himself to death just because Hans hadn’t had the ability to place his feet.

Unthinkable. Hans refuses to be responsible for such.

He stretches his leg, heel firm against the floor, the shape of his toes still too strange to focus on. He looks past them, to the lay of the floorboards. There’s nothing dishonest about them, no substantial changes in elevation, no spurs in the grain that will grab and tear at his wrappings. Nothing that Hans could even attempt to blame his immobility on.

He…he’s just so tired of falling. Hans is so low already, to be so constantly waylaid and forced to the floor does nothing but to make him feel even lesser than he daily does.

But maybe if he eased into it, if he had some sort of reliable support as he attempted to conquer each step.

Hans grabs the broom, though it’s only that in name. Nothing more than a stick with a gathering of cloths lashed to the end. Still, it’ll do what’s needed. Will hopefully keep Hans off his knees for a time.

Support in hand, his foot already prickling unpleasantly, Hans stands ready and starts forward with as much determination as he can muster.

He can do this.

It’s just mobility. Just walking, one foot and then the next. His heel feels strange to not so completely bear his weight, a growing fire at the end of his foot, no matter how the broom lessens the pressure exerted. Still, this is progress. Forward motion where before there was only disaster.

Hans grins, such billowing excitement for something so simple.

But he cannot go around like this forever, a cane out of the question. He will not accept less than the full unaided use of his limbs.  So he lifts the broom end from the floor, his sense of balance immediately less. Hans wobbles, leaning and bending in desperate attempts to stay vertical, the weight of the broom offsetting him until he holds it before his chest, each hand fisted around the wooden length. “Hah!” He cannot reign his pathetic sense of accomplishment, no matter how the pain increases.

-

Evening comes and Hans starts again, no matter how his bruised knees protest. He has a new tactic to employ though, breathing deep before lifting the broom from the floor. Eyes shut, and he envisions each plod of his foot, each step a slow and thoughtful maneuver.

There to here, to the door and back, Hans manages it all with few stumbles, tapping the broom to the floor when he feels balance fleeing. He’s still at it when the door opens, frigid air standing up the hairs along his arms. Hans doesn’t bother to look, knows it’s Murphy from the snort of amusement he hears, “Practicing for when your eyes fall out?”

“Least I’ve two to worry about,” he returns, though Murphy only laughs aloud. It’s a grand sound to hear, nothing more heartening in the entirety of the world. No clearer assurance that Hans hadn’t irreparably damaged their rapport with his sulking and temper.

“Won’t if you poke one out with that stick.” Clear enough that his ankle is still bothering him, every other step not so heavy.

Hans turns, starts again in the other direction, “The water under the stove is warm, soak your foot awhile.” Murphy must takes his suggestion, the slosh of water heard a moment later, a satisfied exhale then following.

Back and forth. Hans keeps on no matter how ridiculous he feels with someone watching him. His skin prickles strangely, fingers tighter around the broom. When doesn’t he feel strange when Murphy watches him, though?

“Ah!” He runs into something, his ankle flexing painfully to the side. Hans swings his arms wide, his knee twisting as he tries to step past the obstruction. He sees Murphy’s snow sodden boots in front of him, manages to catch himself, straightening after an uncertain moment. Low laughter erupts again as Hans nudges the boots closer against the wall. “Shush,” he mutters, taking another step. The chuckles don’t stop though, so he brandishes the stick Murphy’s direction, eyes again closed, “Quit that. Read aloud, if you’re so intent on making noise.”

Murphy isn’t dissuaded, mirth still falling from his lips as he gives the stick a shake. Hans manages to stay vertical, can’t but smile when he hears the shuffling of paper.

-

Days pass and it gets easier.

To be ambulatory isn’t such a surprise anymore, though accomplishment still surges each time Hans notices how long has passed since his last fall. Still can’t bring himself to really look at the remnant of his foot. Can barely stand the strangeness of sensation when he wiggles his toes, a lack of feeling on one side that he never imagined would be so distinct.

Did Murphy feel like this when he lost his eye? Was he unwilling to look in a mirror if only to avoid the reminder of his new lack? Did he feel strange touching his own face, fingers flinching away should they mistakenly brush sunken sink?

Probably not.

Murphy is so together, so incredibly constant. Likely he’d hardly mourned the loss of his eye, perhaps just pressed a fist to the gaping hole and continued on with whatever swashbuckling delinquency he’d been engaging in.

Hans snorts, grinning over at their pile of blankets, fondness surging no matter that Murphy isn’t even there. It’s not so strange an occurrence. Hans thinks about him all day, to be honest. This first thing he does every morning is roll back into Murphy’s heat, his only occupation during the day is mending Murphy’s clothes, keeping the water jug full and stove stoked so Murphy might relax after his shift.

This isn’t a topic Hans often allows himself to pursue, even in solitude. Difficult not to though.

Just, he thinks on Murphy so differently now. It doesn’t feel like gratitude, something much more substantial. Murphy is so… necessary. Beyond the yoke of keeping them in food and shelter. His rare wit is a breath of summer, his strength as constant as the distant mountains. To see him smile, even just the sight of his broad face, makes Hans beyond content. And they coexist so seamlessly, no matter Hans’ guilt for being naught but a burden. He can’t think that it is just because of how long they’ve dwelt together, surely it is something more. Hans would not feel so with any other that granted him protection, would not care to roll towards them on cold nights or to press against them as they slept, concocting a fantasy of some separate life. One where they’d met not in this frozen waste but long before, in sand and sunlight, existing so happily on the edge of the ocean.

Foolish thoughts, of course. The height of drivel, but Hans can’t stop. To think of Murphy outside of this hell is one of his few luxuries. Skin baked golden in the summer heat, a sheen across his abundant muscles, such light and expectation in his eye as he came near, salt wind tossing his hair-. “One would think you were past such impossible desires,” Hans mutters lowly, even as he spreads his knees wider, delving a slow hand beneath his layers.

Perhaps impossible is too harsh a sentiment. Perhaps even incorrect. If…if Hans offered himself, would Murphy care? Would Hans ruin all this with such advances?

He has no idea, couldn’t even begin to imagine what might draw Murphy’s interest. Hardly knows a thing about him really, a predilection for potatoes aside. Maybe Murphy feels no compulsion for activities more sexual. Maybe he is already spoken for, some poor creature waiting endlessly for him to return. Murphy seems too loyal a being to stray, if that were the case. Would perhaps be kind with his rejection, whether another were waiting or no, would still allow Hans to keep his company and to take shelter under his roof.

Either way Hans is not too proud to think on a man already taken. He slouches in the chair, works himself with quicker slides of his palm, pretends to know how grand Murphy’s hand would feel instead. How exquisite it would be to feel hot breath against his shoulder, to be so completely surround by Murphy’s girth, held like the most treasured thing in the world between arms so hard and strong, as indomitable as great pillars of granite.

Hans breathes out, a fire billowing through the whole of him, even to his toes.

It’s so tempting to try, to see if Murphy would refuse him, if Murphy might even desire him. But to be false…

Hans wipes his hand on his scarf, throwing it with the other laundry waiting to be cleaned.

To be false isn’t an option, not when it’s such a certainty. Murphy is hardly meek, would’ve made his interest known if he had any. But what is there to be interested in, really? Hans has lost whatever appeal he ever had claim to. Sunken cheeks, skin an ill greyish tinge, hips jutting out in so unappealing a fashion from his flesh, there is nothing here to draw Murphy’s attention. Hans is not strong, hands still shaking so routinely, mood ever sharp and contrary. He is self-aware enough to know it, has never been successful in prolonged attempts to appear affable.

There is nothing about him genuinely worthwhile, nothing authentic if he even tried to change.

Murphy would not want him, not even in this frozen pit.

-

If anything the settlement is hardly unstable, no matter the intermittent murder and debauchery of the prisoners. The loggers march nearly every morning, following in the earlier footsteps of the mine crew. Caravans routinely fill the ranks, supplies brought in on guarded wagons. On rare occasions Hans can filch something from them. Sometimes a handful of vegetables or a jug of cider. Once he’d even managed to grab an entire pheasant. Murphy had been so pleased when he’d come home that night, grinning at the steaming poultry atop his usual rice. Hadn’t even noticed how Hans had moved so stiffly for the next week.

No matter his returned ability to walk Hans still cannot always dodge the swing of a baton, or outrun the snap of a whip. Even today he is hiding such, his sleeves pulled down to hide the bruises along his arms, his hair left loose to shadow the clench of teeth against his neck.

He doesn’t move from the table when Murphy comes through the door, just turns and watches him through the fall of his bangs. “Evening.”

Murphy grunts back, hooking his patch with a finger and pulling it off as he hangs his coat, expression immediately less pinched. He’s in the midst of getting his laces undone when Hans drops a pair of boots on the floor.

Immediately Murphy’s brow lowers, such suspicion in his gaze, “Where’d you get them?”

“If I tell you, you’ll just be cross.” Murphy’s eye gets ever more narrow, such a sigh following. “Quit,” Hans murmurs as he resumes his stitching, kicking the boots closer, “just try them on. See if they’re any better than what you have.”

A moment of muttering to himself and Murphy finally comes near, dropping to the floor and tugging the boots closer. It’s difficult to see if he’s at all pleased, the lantern sending shadows down his face. He checks the eyeholes, tugging at the seams before sliding them on, lifting his head as he ties the laces, “I gonna to have to worry about someone-.”

“I already altered their look enough that you shouldn’t be bothered.” The foreman they’d belonged to is dead, her body perhaps still bleeding out behind the cook’s shack. It’s the only time ice has ever actually aided Hans, the foreman slipping enough for him to break from her grip and put a blade in her gut. Still he shakes from it, resting his hands a moment lest he stab himself. Strange that he’s still so upset, it’s not like being accosted is foreign to him. Just…it’s been awhile since any have gotten so close, since he’s been held down and touched. Even though Murphy’s presence lends such immediate security, he is still anxious, foolishly so.

Hans clears his throat, shaking out his hand before drawing the thread tight, “I heard some grousing about changes in administration.” Murphy takes a few steps, finally something like a smile on his face. “I don’t suppose you’d be more knowledgeable?”

“Mm.” Murphy unlaces the boots, dropping them beside the stove. “Getting a new head officer. Some king’s cousin or what not.”

Seems foolish to be so surprised by that. Surely a posting in this land isn’t permanent, or even particularly sought after. They probably rotate the commander every year or so. “Any idea who?”

Murphy snorts as he pulls out his chair, “Because you’d know them?”

Hans probably wouldn’t be familiar with them personally, but the northern realms’ aristocrats are well known. A surname might be enough to lend some recognition. “Curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Murphy informs him as he kicks his feet atop Hans’ knees, toes flaring before the heat of the stove.

Hans just smiles, such grand warmth blooming through him as he sets to work on another tear, “You’ve forgotten that satisfaction brought it back.”

-

It starts again as the night becomes less dark, a great hacking cough echoing beside him, each ragged shake of Murphy’s frame keeping Hans from any attempts towards continued slumber. Finally he just gives up, rolling from the blankets and crossing to the wall, his bare feet protesting as he crouches before the water jug.

Murphy hasn’t stopped when Hans returns, such a fierce set to his face when he looks up, each gruff word parsed between gasping breaths and hacks, “Wh-wh-what a-are-.”

Like some drowning gargoyle, lord. “Can you even breathe?’

“Mm,” Murphy manages as he leans up on his elbow, coughing once more into his elbow, “I’m f-fine, shut up.”

“Quite,” Hans agrees, forcing the cup into his hand, “the epitome of health.” He’s not given a response, Murphy too busy attempting to parse the intricacies of drinking without choking. He isn’t particularly successful, has to make subsequent attempts between each reemergence of his cough, more water spilled on his front than what makes it down his throat. Hans crouches and presses his palm against Murphy’s cheek, such a sickly heat in his face, “Go back to sleep.”

Murphy just shakes his head though, pushing to his feet, “Not. Can’t.” He struggles upward, every breath so harsh. He doesn’t even change, just jerks pants over his sleepwear and wrestles with a sweater. Coughs so explosively, more sound than Murphy’s likely made in his entire life.

Hans sighs and straightens, tying back his hair, “We won’t starve if you rest-.”

“Work. Going,” Murphy grumbles, his lids low, fingers slow and fumbling as he fusses with the straps of his patch. “Why’re you even up? Sleep.”

Hans snorts, “You’ve hardly the authority to suggest such.” Murphy just grunts, his boot laces a pitiful knot. Hans doesn’t offer to help, will not participate in this idiocy. Murphy doesn’t care, strong willed as ever. He looks smothered and mammoth in his coat, some ruddy-faced giant that can’t take a silent breath. “This is ridiculous.”

Murphy doesn’t bother with a response, flapping a disinterested hand as he forges forward into Siberia’s wrath.

-

Murphy won’t listen to reason, still marches into the snow the next few mornings no matter that he’s not managed but the barest of sleep. Comes home so obviously miserable, just sits at the table and lets Hans take off his boots. There’s no energy to him, the barest of motions to help as Hans peels off his layers, each dampened through with sweat. He’s soaking in hot water at the moment, head tipped back against the wall. Each breath is so sickly ragged, snores intermixed between. Makes it easier to see the bruises on his breast, the dark marks around his neck that contrast so exactly into the shape of fingers.

Hans looks away, has too, hands quivering so very worse. Doesn’t help though, he can still envision it clearly, can see hands around Murphy’s neck, a knee against his chest, someone bearing him down, beating his head against the ground-.

The bucket slips, water sloshing over the edge.

Hans breathes deep, just sets it down and puts hands through his hair, gripping tightly. He must stop this. Has-, has to remember how to be rational. Murphy is not hurt, not excessively. Doesn’t seem at all worried about being attacked, hasn’t even said anything about it. Just…just apparently didn’t even care what Hans might think so see such marks, such an obvious result of his sickness, weakness assumed and lunged upon by those that would do him harm, that would take his life, take his home, take…take anything inside-.

“Lord, man.” Hans turns to the window, covering his eyes, the whole of him shaking so fiercely. “You’re such a coward,” he whispers, acidic fright climbing his spine. Can’t deny it, couldn’t even try. Here is his protector brought low, so sick and hurt, more miserable than a creature has ever been, and Hans can only think of himself. Of his own worthless skin and life.

Admitting such does nothing to abate his fear though, does nothing to ease the pathetic tightening of his chest and the endless desperation of his hands.

Foolish, all of this.

Murphy is fine. Murphy is strong, so very sturdy and able. He is everything that Hans never had the patience to be. Murphy does not need glory, nor the acknowledgment of others. He is so-, so incredibly content with himself and his own capabilities, such quiet confidence in everything he does.

Such spades between them. Hans could never be so together again, never really was. He has nothing to be confident of, nothing that could name him capable or of worth. What would it matter if some cretin came and claimed this place, if they claimed Hans too? Murphy would be dead, bleeding out in a dungeon of coal and cold. What matters Hans’ fate, if such a man were gone from the world?

“Wazz-, wazz at?”

Hans rubs his eyes with a sleeve before turning around, smiling, “Awake then?” He grabs the metal handle of the bucket and steps to the stove, “Suppose you’ll remain so long enough for some dinner?”

The coughing starts before Murphy can answer, such a deafening eruption whenever he first wakes. Hans grabs the last stick of asparagus as Murphy remembers how to breathe, minces it as fine as he can before dropping it in boiling water. Hopes that will aid Murphy in keeping it down. He watches the bubbles, the liquid slowly tinting green as the vegetable cooks, the pieces turning so vivid a color. It’s only a momentary distraction though. Another few seconds and Hans pulls the pan away, stirring in some soft rice.

Murphy’s decided to be mobile, climbing from the barrel as Hans gets a bowl, dripping water everywhere. He stumbles to the chair, leaning heavily on the table and exhaling roughly as his dinner is set before him. Still seems hardly awake, brows so low, the sunken skin of his left eye looking so ill with the contrasting flushes of his skin.

The bruise on his chest is clearer now, the dark depth of it so stark against Murphy’s new paleness. Hans can see even more, a trail of them across his flank and on the back of his shoulder. Mammoth swatches of purplish color, feathery on the edges as it merges with healthy skin.

Batons leave marks like the longest of them, heavy oak bludgeons with metal caps. The ones lower are too small though, likely made in the same fashion on the ones around Murphy’s neck. Someone’s hands, clenched in violence, Murphy too slow to avoid. Maybe this has always been the reality of his labor. Defending against constant assault, mining between strong arming his own safety.

There have never been bruises though, never physical remnants for Hans to see.

Can see them now, tucked so dreadfully close to Murphy’s ribs. Could’ve broken one so easily. Maybe even punctured his flesh. He wouldn’t have come home then, no one would’ve bothered to help him. Hans wouldn’t have been able to, doesn’t even know where the mine is. Murphy would’ve froze before he got there even if Hans wasn’t such an ignorant fool, that or bled out.

Murphy would’ve just been lying there, the world growing dim, in so much pain, left to crawl unless someone just decided to put a pike though his head-.

Water splashes across the floor when Hans can’t keep his fingers still, a metal cup falling. He fists his hands, curling arms around his sick stomach, breathing so hard, his chest so tight. He sees Murphy look at him, sight so blurry though, turns away and goes for the laundry. He-, _good Lord,_ he can hardly plant his feet.

“What're you-.”

“Fine,” Hans gasps out, grabbing a towel and pressing it desperately against his burning eyes, sucking in air through his teeth. “I’m fine, sorry.” Murphy hasn’t stopped looking at him when he turns around. Hans doesn’t know why he even attempts to lie, such evidence of distress in his quivering hands and clenched jaw.

“Getting both-,” Murphy hacks into his elbow, the table shaking beneath him, “ge-getting b-b-bothered by someone?” He always jumps to that so quickly, Hans’ safety ever his first concern.

“Yes,” Hans admits tightly as he kicks some dirty laundry over his spill, moving it across the floor to soak up Murphy’s trail. There’s a narrow eye on him, so he continues before Murphy can get needlessly aggravated, holding forth the towel, “By you, actually. I wish you’d stop going out until you’re not ill.”

Murphy immediately rolls his eye, hunching back over his meal, muttering so hoarsely that Hans can’t even understand.

Which-, oh, it just makes this so much _worse._ Hans’ stomach twists so horribly, his whole face flushing with angry heat. Does this fool really not see the danger? Has he really so much disinterest in his own life? “Murphy, please-.”

“Nothing wrong-.”

“It isn’t necessary,” Hans insists, his knuckles fisted white. He can’t stand this, would gladly go without food or fire if Murphy would just rest, if he would abstain from thrusting himself into such evident violence and danger. “You’re just going to be hurt, all for no reason, and-.” Hans has to breathe, feels like he’s going to burst, that he could just shake apart into a thousand pieces of failure and fear. “Please,” he finally manages, throat tight, hands fisted so desperately in the towel, “please don’t go.”

-

The next morning Hans rises a few hours after Murphy’s gone. He brings in snow to melt and puts out the fire, knotting his scarf tighter when the wind screams. Head down, shoulders bowed in the gale, Hans leaves the shack and walks as quickly as he’s able, the road bare and frozen beneath his feet. He doesn’t feel the cold like he used to, having scavenged Murphy's old boots. He'd not been able to make them fit no matter how full they'd been stuffed, had finally just cut the soles and attached leather straps to the sides. It's strange to wear sandals in a land that doesn't even have a word for sand. It's drier though, warmer since the cloth wrapped around his feet never touches the ground.

The way is not immediately apparent. He doesn’t remember the morning of his amputation clearly, only the splitting migraine he’d awoken with. It hadn’t been so light on the way there either, and as much as Hans doesn’t relish walking alone in the darkness he might recognize which shadows to turn at.

An hour passes before he approaches a vaguely reminiscent door. He isn’t terribly certain, but still he continues forward. His knocks echo loudly, the silence after so long. Hans clasps his hands behind his back, turning some to watch the road as he waits. There is no one out, none that he can see at least, but still his nerves refuse to calm. Relief does not come when he hears the sound of feet. So long has passed since he last interacted with anyone but Murphy. Hans isn’t sure he remembers how.

The door swings in, the doctor’s face showing, as disinterested as Hans remembers, “What?”

Hans swallows, his mouth so strangely dry, “Good day, madam-.”

She scowls fiercely, “Not a madam, boy, just Ted. Get on with it.”

“Of-, of course,” Hans manages, fingers clenching tighter, “I’m here on behalf of the individual that brought me here prior-.”

“Big ginger, what of him?”

“He has fallen prey to some sickness.”

 “And?”

Hans keeps his expression static, rising above the impatience surging from his chest. He ignores the relentless anxiety climbing his spine the longer he stands outdoors, “I thought you might have something to aid him in recovery.”

She sighs, eyes rolling as the door swings further open. Hans takes the implied invitation, stepping past the threshold and pushing the door shut behind him. Everything seems as he remembers, a great table in the center, sacks of herbs and other oddities hanging from the rafters. Ted retreats to the back counter, smoke drifting upward. “Can hardly sleep,” she mutters around a cigar, unscrewing a series of jars, “coughing the whole day, barely keep food down. Isn’t naught but lung rot.” Hans comes slowly closer, doesn’t bother questioning how she knows Murphy’s symptoms. He watches intently, though unsure why he bothers. He’d have no inkling if she were sifting together anything toxic. “Came with the last caravan, full of those pale-eyed bastards.” She covers the jar and shakes it furiously, speaking barely louder, “Most of the miners and foremen have come down with it.”

Hans hums, can’t imagine how she stands it being so cold in here. He can’t even spot a stove or brazier. But maybe her medicines require it.

Shouldn’t be so bothered. Not like he’s not survived in colder.

Hans clears his throat, shaking off the sudden sensation of frost building along his arms, “I appreciate-.”

“Appreciation don’t get you far out here.” She screws the jar shut and leans back on the counter, smoke curling lowly before her half lidded eyes. “Sure you know that, though.”

Hans isn’t sure in what manner he should take that. “I-, yes. I would not expect otherwise.” Doesn’t really care, no matter her meaning. “I hesitate to speak for him, but I’m sure Murphy would agree to the same terms.”

Her lips curve in sudden amusement as she taps ash into a dirty glass, “Not up to it yourself then?”

“I…I suppose that would depend on how much.” Hans can’t name the last time he lifted an axe. “Half a cord, perhaps?” He doesn’t understand her sudden laughter. It’s deep as a church bell, more honest mirth in it than he’s ever heard in this land. He looks away at the sound of feet, hands clenching tight again, heel lifting in preparation of retreat.

A woman comes through the back curtain, “What’s this?” She looks soft in a way that few others do on the tundra, plump and with the kindest eyes Hans has ever seen. He drops her gaze, wishes she wouldn’t smile at him so.

Instead she turns to Ted, eyes creased in such strange cheer, “A friend of yours, dear?”

Ted snorts, tapping her cigar again. “Hardly.” Her cheer is gone, brows low and dangerous. Amusing actually, that she imagines Hans is anything worth being suspicious over. “Mutt bothering me for medicine.”

“Oh,” the woman tutts, waving a hand disapprovingly, “you and your mutts.” She comes closer, stretching like she’s going to pat Hans’ arm, “Don’t be put out, child, her tongue’s not capable of a kind word.”

He-, he can’t, quickly slides a step back, his nerves raging so fiercely. Hans isn’t a child, is so far from one, but still he retreats, so immediately distressed to be outnumbered. The woman doesn’t look offended, didn’t even see, Ted jerking her back and tossing the jar over.

Hans catches it against his stomach, sliding another step away, “I-, I’ll be around tomorrow then.”

“Don’t bother,” Ted grinds out, gesturing him towards the door. “I’ve no need of wood for the time being, whether it be yourself or logs.”

-

If anyone is a child it’s Murphy. A great hulking beast of a child that can’t even breathe properly, “No.”

Hans ties his hair back with heavy jerks of his arm, eyes narrow, “I did not wander the settlement for an hour so you could sulk. Drink it.”

Murphy crosses his arms, such a scowl on his face, “Smells weird.”

“Says the man who didn’t bathe for more than a year.” There’s no rejoinder, Murphy busy hacking into his elbow. Hans comes back near, pushing the cup closer before stepping to the stove to fashion some more charcoal sticks. “I’ve had some, it’s not that horrid.” Nowhere near the realm of pleasant, but more than capable of being downed.

“Still not-.”

“I have a blade,” Hans informs him, swinging around and flipping it over his knuckles with an olden dexterity, no one more surprised than himself when it doesn’t fall, “and you are currently pathetic enough that I might even do you some damage. I suggest you drink.”

Murphy snorts, eye creased like he’s never seen something so amusing. But he lifts the cup to his lips. Makes a face of course, such drama in his wrinkled nose, lips pressed thin like he’s never tasted something so foul. A pause to take a noisy swallow, “...How’d you get this from her?”

Hans steps to the table, cleaning charcoal from his fingers with a dirty shirt, “Same deal that you gave.”

Murphy chokes a little, coughing as he sets the cup aside, such a furrow in his brows. “Wh-what?”

“I wasn’t expecting her to give up her stores freely.” Ted hardly seems the type. Impatience is likely the only reason she gave him the medicine without payment. “I’d figured a half a cord would be decent compensation.”

So sick a creature, such clear confusion in Murphy’s broad face, “What? What about cords?”

“Half a cord,” Hans repeats as he puts the cup back into Murphy’s lax palm, forcing his large fingers to curl around it. “Firewood, logs. I fear conversation is beyond you at the moment.”

Murphy drains the rest of the mixture, such a sickly heat in his face. “Wood,” he mutters gruffly, pushing to his feet, “right, sorry.”

“Mm.” Hans watches him go, such an unsteadiness to his tread. “Keep it down and I might even make you dinner.”

After sleeping for a day and a half Murphy returns to work, his fever gone and bruises on the way to fading. He’s so obviously pleased with himself and his returned vigor, brings home a pair of gloves and hands them over with a rare grin. Hans can’t help but match his mood, makes no comment about the frozen blood staining the tips. Murphy’s knuckles are scraped, but Hans doesn’t ask, just hopes that there’s no one left at the mines that will ever think to do Murphy harm.

Strange how the world seems right again. Hans spending the days by himself and the nights beside a mountain of warmth. They do lessons less often, barely a need for it anymore. It’s more a game now, Hans writing out increasingly difficult words for Murphy to scoff at. Another blizzard stops labor some weeks later, though only for a brief time. Hans hardly notices, content to debate trivialities or to feign sleep tucked against Murphy’s warmth. He’s satisfied in this coexistence, so impossibly without care as time marches, more relaxed than he’s been in his entire life.

-

Hans is too at ease here.

To feel such comfort in this false domesticity is wrong, a mistake that only serves to weaken him. This is still imprisonment, no matter that he has not been chained since the march to this frozen waste. Still his body is at the whim of others, no substantial resistance he could hope to offer if Murphy wasn’t his protection. Nothing he could possibly do if that protection suddenly morphed into the desire for dominion, no matter how unlikely such is. His intellect withers with each day, tethered to the level of those around him, the long hours of silence and solitude chiseling at him whenever Murphy is absent.

There is no rehabilitation in this place, nothing to inspire the lawless to morality. Hans certainly doesn’t feel like a different man, his core the same even if his ideals are altered, even if his past ambitions feel more like the motivations of juveniles.

He narrows his eyes at the white span before him, the acknowledgment of maturity a difficulty to accept. Resistance is unnecessary though, his own endless pride the only obstruction. He was never so foolish as the moment he set foot in Arendelle, grand visions of his own eminence overthrowing his sensibility.

When was the last time he even contemplated escape, no matter how vain the attempt might be?

The foremen barely patrol the settlement, but only out of a lack of necessity. Most that survive the march hardly have the strength to attempt a return trip, especially without any food or shelter. The daily labor necessary to keep one’s self fed completely consumes what energy the attempt would demand. The tundra is just too cold to traverse unaided and alone.

Hans turns away, head bowed as he starts back towards the shack. The wind delves beneath his layers less then, no matter that he looks no more than a submissive waif, a broken steed docilely returning to his master’s stable.

-

A burst of cold as the door opens and shuts, heavy footsteps that Hans doesn’t need to turn around to identify, “New officer’s here.”

He doesn’t pause in wringing out Murphy’s shirt, no matter the way his shoulders tense, “Get a look?”

“Heard more than I saw.” Hans hangs the shirt behind the stove with the rest, sets out some more rice to cook when he sees that Murphy’s already halfway through his bowl. “Seems like a hardass. Came to tour the mine. I was in the bottom level and heard him shouting all the way from outside.”

Hans can imagine the type. It’d been like that when he was a midshipman, the new captain always disparaging the old ways, spouting constantly about foundations for improvement, whether or not it was needed. “What…what do you think he’ll change?”

“Been through a few since I got here.” Murphy stretches as he says it, a rough groan following. “Nothing much ever happens. I wouldn’t worry on it.”

-

There’s a banging on the wall, a pounding beat that shocks Hans to awareness. A shout follows, one he can’t understand past the frenzied pace of his heart. Murphy climbs over him, presses Hans back into the blankets when he makes to rise. “Just a foreman, stay put.”

Hans brings the fabric back over his shoulder, sliding back to take advantage of the warmth left over.

Murphy’s breadth blocks most of the wind when he opens the door a crack. The conversation is short, the foreman’s words only a murmur through the air. A moment and the door goes shut, Murphy’s broad hand holding it to the frame. He doesn’t return to the blankets, his shoulders growing tense and high as Hans watches. He turns after a moment, nudging his boots out from the wall.

Hans leans up on an arm, brows furrowed, “What is it?”

Murphy just tosses Hans his coat, “We’ve got to go.”

-

The wind is calm for the moment, the early morning sun visible through wispy clouds, as bright as it’s been all through the last weeks. It seems so contrary to nature, being in a land where the sun will refuse to set for so many days. Hans prefers it to the spans of darkness though. Nothing breeds false courage and mischief so thoroughly as when the settlement is so constantly bathed in shadow.

Been a while since he’s been out this far. New buildings have been put up, stretching all the way to the field, as squat and narrow as the housing units are. There’s an abundance of foremen too, more than he’s ever seen. Almost a regiment of them, militant in the way they’re gathered, a sword on every belt, leather helmets visible beneath their fur hats. They line the main thoroughfare, herding everyone towards a platform with a tall stage atop.

Hans walks with his hands hidden in his sleeves, does his utmost to appear calm. It’s a terror to be amongst others like this, his fingers shaking so badly, lungs working harder than they should. When they stop he recognizes few of those around them, doesn’t notice Ted for a long moment even though she’s right beside them. It’s strange to see her with hair. Murphy’s behind him, as much a barrier against the others as Hans could ever hope to have, his chest firm when Hans presses back to avoid the excessive amount of elbow thrusting the teenagers do when conversing.

A horn trills, the masses gradually growing quiet. A dozen foremen take the stage, ones Hans has never seen. They’ve come from some military campaign he’s sure, their movements too crisp, a certain exactness to the angle of their chins and the spread of their feet. Another trill and a man takes the stage, every foreman present saluting.

Hans tries to resist the fear curling in his gut. Maybe this is just ceremony, pomp for no reason but to impress and encourage docility.

The officer is rather short, his face ruddy, though from the wind or his own complexion Hans is unsure. A compact man, seems unlikely to have produced the sort of volume Murphy had claimed. There is a certain flair to his dress; slim metal stamped to the rim of his cap, gleaming stones set in the buttons of his coat, a silver chain latched across his chest, small flourishes of station and prestige that the aristocracy ever felt the need to use.

Hans smiles briefly. As if he’d been any different. Flexing his wrist beneath his sleeve, he recalls the only embellishment he’d ever been truly fond of, a steel bracelet woven with copper. One of the few adornments his brothers had ever allowed him. Denor had always been the worst about it, an immediate temper flaring if anyone lower ever thought to dress better than him. Still, the bracelet had rarely ever been seen, hidden beneath Hans’ sleeve. He’d tended to curl his fingers back and fuss with it when in attendance at court, something comforting in the weight.

It was the first thing Ryne had taken when Hans was brought home, smiling so coldly as he’d snapped it off.

There’s nothing about Ryne that Hans is eager to remember, certainly not that smile, nothing wholesome in it.

There…there really isn’t anything wholesome about Ryne.

“Я Михаил Михаилович.” Hans jerks as the officer’s voice rings out. How could this man put out such volume? It continues, such a strident echoing tone, feet spread and hands clasped behind his back in the manner of all northern aristocrats.

Hans tips his head back, pressing some to gain Murphy’s attention, “Do you understand him?”

Murphy shakes his head, looks to Ted.

She takes another drag of her cigar, “They’re restructuring the settlement.”

That doesn’t sound in any way promising. Hans curls his hands tighter together, content to stay pressed against Murphy’s girth when no complaint is voiced, “How so?”

Before she can answer another foreman steps up, her words echoing after the officer’s, “There will be no more unlawfulness! All prisoners will work, all prisoners will sleep in housing and do as being told!” She continues alongside the officer, each voice ringing louder, expectation and new rules, few of which Hans can actually understand between them, his shoulders high and tight, his blood running cold.

-

“Sit.”

Hans obeys, staring down at his hands, at the paleness of his knuckles, dark pinpricks of freckles standing out so starkly. He starts when a sack gets sat his lap,  “Murphy-.”

“That’s the rest of the rice, a blade in the midst, careful how you hold it.”

Hans crosses his arms over the sack, “But-.”

“Don’t use it if you can help it, anyone sees and they’ll try to take it.” Murphy is moving so quickly, purpose in every step and reach.

Hans has no purpose, can’t…can’t think.

They’re being separated.

Sent so far from each other, opposite ends of the housing block almost. Hans looks at his palm again, can’t quit the shaking, stares at the raised red lines of a square baked forever into his flesh.

Murphy doesn’t have the same. Has something that curves, but Hans didn’t really see, can’t really remember. Just knows it’s not the same.

But…but maybe they could do something. Hans could-, could follow maybe. Surely the patrols won’t be so tight. He could sneak there, and-, and they could this figure out-. “Time to go,” Murphy barks, pulling Hans to his feet and striding to the door, stepping back into the tundra like it’s the simplest thing.

Hans doesn’t follow.

Won’t.

He can’t do this.

No, not again. He’s tried to be self-sufficient, to exist on nothing but his own strength and ideals.  Fool he was, to so scorn stability, when soon he will not have life left to even consider himself above such concepts.

Beyond that threshold is nothing but an end. A culmination of his pathetic life. The final act in a production spawned by his juvenile idealism, by his vanity and unnecessary craving to be something of worth. How different everything would be, if he’d only been more like his father. If he’d been quiet and without ambition, content to laze away life in the cushion of royalty, ignored but alive.

Murphy notices, turns back with furrowed brows, the straps of his patch so strangely fearsome, “Come on.”

“No,” Hans breathes out, eyes clenched shut, shoulders hunched as he steps back, “I can’t, I won’t.”

He has to though, Murphy stomping back and curling hard fingers around his arm, forcing him out into the swirling snow, “Don’t have any choice.”

Hans had choice once. Choice to have his conceited way or to let opportunity slip him by.

He chose badly.

 _So very badly_.

-

There’s so many people moving around them, so much noise, children crying, arguments screamed into the air as things are fought over. Blankets are torn in half, the ground stained red already, such commotion and activity.

It’s terrible, all of it. Hans has never known such horror, can’t even bare to watch it all. Instead he stares at Murphy’s face, and tries so desperately not to shake, presses the sack more firmly against his chest, fingers gripping tight in his sleeves, “I’ll see you, though.” It’s been so long since Murphy has seemed so distant, since his broad face has been so closed and hard. “Won’t I?”

Murphy exhales heavily, his breath a great cloud in the air, and finally he steps near, finally comes close and presses his palm against the side of Hans’ neck, fingers curling in the thick length of his hair, “Stay warm, stay fed. Won’t no one leave you be if they see you shaking.”

That’s the last thing Murphy says to him, his large hand so tight and heavy, but then gone, completely gone, Hans all by himself.

All alone again and already starting to quiver, no matter how stiff he holds.


	5. Chapter 5

Mikhailovich didn’t lie. There’s nothing the same, the housing a worse pit than before with everyone forced into it. The new structures haven’t been built right, cracks running down from the ceiling, cold air seeping in all night. There’s one stove in the midst that puts out a bare amount of smoky heat, no braziers, only as much warmth as a person can make themselves, less they’ve kin to press against. Bands of the nastiest and strongest take territory, raining down hell and demands on those without enough stones or strength to stand apart. Murphy has enough of both to manage himself. Has to bloody his fist more often than he likes, but he doesn’t get bothered every night.

It's so beyond clear that the prisoners aren’t used to structure, to not being able to brighten their meager lives through blatant barter with the guards. Barely any of the old ones remain to even try it with. The new officer had cleaned house pretty quick, his own militia spreading through the ranks. People with hard faces and thin patience. Quick to bark orders.

Quicker to draw a blade.

Thievery from the supply wagons isn’t something that even happens anymore, no matter how little food is given. There’s none that have the inclination after a family was put to death when the daughter was caught stealing. Their heads had been on pikes aside the cook’s porch for a month, the frost and snow brushed off every morning so none would forget.

Caravans come more regular, wars breaking out every time a new idiot tries to become king of the pit. It’s some woman with thin eyes at the moment, skin shaded like those from out east. Won’t be long until she’s dethroned, until someone nastier rots their way to the top. Never matters who it is, Murphy always has to listen to some spiel about joining their ranks. Always has to bust some jaws and bruise his knuckles afore he’s let alone.

Doesn’t really matter what trash has made themselves king. There’s always folks on the ground getting lorded over, throats cut for the barest of things.

The shifts are longer now, work being done no matter the weather. Everyone gets shuffled through the forest and the mines, the children and the infirm given no allowance for their weakness. Newcomers get put through the Terik their first week, the bodies of those that can’t keep up just dragged to the field to freeze. The feeblest don’t last, the barracks not so crowded after a few weeks of it.

Murphy doesn’t see Hans down in the tunnels, counts himself grateful for it.

Doesn’t see him at all.

Maybe…maybe he doesn’t feel right about that. Maybe sometimes he hears a far off scream and has to fight with himself not to break out and make sure it’s not Hans’ fingers that are being broken, not Hans being forced to the floor, fright and terror in his spring sea eyes.

But Murphy doesn’t.

Will just turn against the wall, hands fisted tight and chest seizing like it’s never done before. A coward’s comfort, but what could he even do?

“Not a damn thing,” he grits past clenched teeth, pressing his hands over his ears when the sobbing starts, stomach so sour and twisted. No way that’s Hans though, not when he was shuffled to the other side of the settlement. Still can’t stand such a noise, pain and terror made audible, no more desperate sound in all the world. Can’t forget how Hans sounded so similar that first night, out of his mind with cold and fear, a slip of a creature that just needed some warmth and time without being pawed at by cretins and ice.

Got to stop thinking about him.

Murphy did what he could, more than another in his boots would’ve. Kept him safe, kept him warm and fed. Not...not his fault he can’t do it anymore. Would, he knows, not the strength to deny it. He'd storm across the camp in a minute and be Hans’ shield without a hesitation, without a single laud if he thought either of them would survive the attempt.

Better this way.

Murphy sighs deep in his throat, so tired of trying to convince himself the truth of that.

Not that it ought to be so difficult. What’s he got to offer anyway, past his strength? Past his strenuous hold on letters? Couldn’t but murmur back whenever Hans went off on politics or trade. Barely even understood any of it when he got harping on tariffs and embargoes, all confident and quick, a sort of eager fire in his eye as he would lecture on about his ridiculous thoughts for how a land should be run. Was always so keen and assured, intellect and learning falling off his tongue like rain would a cloud.

Murphy’s never felt so competent except when he’s swinging, be it a blade or an axe. Sure, he can read a bit now, but it doesn’t make him any better, doesn’t make him any more intelligent. Not that different from putting a gold saddle on an ass and calling it a stallion if he’s honest. Hans wouldn’t of wanted him, not with how thick Murphy is, with how torn up he is, made of nothing but scars and callouses. Worse yet...Hans might’ve felt like he had to.

Maybe would’ve expected Murphy to throw him out unless he spread his legs and played at being interested.

Everything twists tighter, such a sour sickness all through him. Murphy breathes into his elbow, hand pressing down on his clenching stomach. Can’t…can’t barely think about that. It hurts like little else does to think of Hans doing such against his will, going to his knees just to survive, being touched just because Murphy wasn’t the only one to see him and stir.

Should’ve fought for him.

Should’ve done something, anything. The foremen don’t check the brands that thoroughly. Murphy could’ve put points onto the circle burned into his palm with a heated knife, made it into something square enough that he could’ve went with Hans. His whole hand was red and burning that day, no one would’ve noticed. The foremen would only have thought it a slip of the iron as it’d sizzled through Murphy’s flesh. Would have healed up like it is now, pale and raised but enough angles to get him through. 

Murphy’s such a fucking fool. He could be with Hans right now if he’d had any sense, if he’d forced himself to think while Hans was losing his mind.

-

Can’t stand being out in the wind like this.

Every gale rushes through the trees with a biting swiftness, roaring through the branches overhead, the trunks creaking as ancient wood shifts.

The mine is barely lit and smells like blood and cold, but the air never razed him like this, at least not until the march back.

Seems like it takes evening so much longer to come in the forests. Nothing to make the day go quicker but the droning of saws, long and dull. The trees don’t give off scent like they will when cut down south in summer. Too cold for that, for anything but the dust of tree flesh to drift off on the wind, scraping against Murphy’s face, getting in his eye. Always a bitch to get it out, an irritation lingering even to the next day.

Not that Murphy isn’t irritated most of the time, at least when he’s got the energy for it.

Days like this he doesn’t.

Days like this just suck the care for anything out of his blood, just a low depressed existence, just swinging and sawing and dragging, a never ending dredge of monotony. He almost wants to be the tree, to have vermin sawing at his flesh, putting him closer to the end with each moment, layers getting sliced through until he topples down to the earth, life extinguished like a-.

Something slams into his shoulder. Not hard enough to make him stumble, there’s little than can manage that, even among these brutes, but enough to grab his attention. Turns out to be Ted when he glances over.

She looks rough, got more hair on her, longer now, snarled and dirty from what he can see under her hood. Got a snarl on her lips, an annoyed resignation in the crease of her eyes. It’s something beyond strange to see her without a cigar between her teeth or hanging from her hand. Not as if she could even get them anymore though. Mikhailovich runs a tight ship, the faintest attempts towards bribery resulting in little but the perpetrator bleeding out on the snow. Even still, it’s a mite surprising to see her actually put to labor. Isn’t like the foremen don’t still take ill or haven’t need of a surgeon when someone takes a fall and requires a bone shoved to rights.

Yet here she is, bloodied grazes on her tinted skin and bland recognition lifting a brow, “…Ginger.”

He doesn’t bother with more than a grunt in greeting, doesn’t miss how her eyes lower to the height of his chest, looking on either side of his shoulders.

Eyebrow lifts a little higher, “Strange to see you without your shadow.”

Tension shoves through him in a seizing burn, jaw gone clenched and pale beneath his scarf, making his stubble itch more than it usually does. Pathetic, that he needs little else for shame to take hold. She didn’t even have to say the name for Murphy’s blood to pulse like his heart is a drum beating to war. “Seen him?”

She scoffs, low and irate as her eyes roll, “It matter?”

Her throat fits so easy in his palm.

Murphy barely realizes the movement of his hand until he’s got her, until he’s squeezing, almost too tight. Can barely hold himself off, barely even cares to, “Yeah.”

Gets something snarly in her face, and then her fist cracks against Murphy’s nose, as if he would even feel it in this cold.

Still makes him so angry, so immediately out of his mind with a fury he hasn’t felt since Rider left him and his brother to get shackled. There’s nothing in the whole world like betrayal that sets his blood aflame, and yet here he is holding Ted off the ground by her neck, about set to shake her apart. His voice is a sudden bellow, his snarling lips reflected in her wide eyes, “ _Tell me_!”

But then there’s a baton cracking on his back, another against the crown of his head, voices shouting in his ear as he gets taken to the ground, Ted’s fingers yet trying to claw desperate lines through his gloved flesh.

-

The sun is out, strange as that is. Seems like there’s only been grey light passing down through clouds for so long now. The light shines bright on the snow, scattering into Murphy’s eyes, enough that he has to squint as he walks with the crowd.

It’s a slow shuffle to the open area in front of the cook’s porch, not that such is so terrible. Murphy's back still aches, likely will for a week or so more. Eventually they all get corralled into a circle by the foremen, whips snapping overhead and against the flesh of those unfortunate enough to be in the front. There’s not even that many of them, a bare dozen maybe. Strutting about with their swords and fur caps, barking orders and giving pain. The foremen wouldn’t survive this sort of gathering if there was any courage on the tundra. If the masses just pushed forward, if the criminals surrounding Murphy just surged all at once.

Maybe Murphy ought to do that. Could rally those around him, retake some control over his life.

A fool’s thought. There’s nothing in Murphy that knows how to do anything but follow after the variable plod of others, never even a glimmer inside to take the reins from Seamus when they were yet running fast and free.

Likely why this is Murphy’s existence now. One he’s not sure will ever come to an end.

Been so many months since he's had a letter from his brother, and the last one wasn’t more than a few lines that hadn’t a single thing to do with getting Murphy out of this icy pit. Wasn’t so strange for the letter to be short, but the last few had felt more like placeholders than anything with substance, nothing in the messy script about Seamus ready to break him out, not a _single_ word of gratitude for-.

“Attention!” a foreman bellows, the same one that translated months ago on the stage, still such sharp expectation to her voice.

It’s enough to quiet the masses, though murmurs flare up for a bare moment when one of the other foremen throw back a furred hood, Mikhailovich’s ruddy face stern and clenched in ire. He’s not got his shiny cap today, nor any of those fancy flairs to his dress. To be honest, it’s a measure startling to realize that he hasn’t kept himself separate from the workings of the camp. Murphy’s seen that stride in the mines and the forest, has watched those arms wrestle a rowdy prisoner to obedience.

Can almost respect a man like that.

Murphy might, if the same bastard isn’t the reason he got taken from the only brightness he’s ever known in this frigid nightmare.

“Worthless,” Mikhailovich informs them, the evidence of his birthland clinging to each syllable, hands clasped behind his back as he turns in a slow circle. “Wastes of _breath._ Of blood and _bone_!” The last rings through the sunshine like the heavy judgement of a church bell, an unrelenting burst of authority and disgust. He keeps on in that same manner, dissatisfaction and irritation falling from each thick syllable, as if he thinks the convicts could be made to feel guilty for living as the villains and cretins they are. “-shelter, and purpose, and repentance, all so much more than you deserve!”

Hard to keep him in sight, the sun forcing an eye watering brightness to everything, enough that Murphy has to squint to see the officer’s furious pace, the brief gusts of artic ire making the task worse. Can’t even hear every word of his lecture, wind stealing so much of it, a rush in Murphy’s ear that freezes him so entirely. Isn’t like he cares though. Not even sure what this nonsense is, beyond the likelihood that there’s to be some sort of demonstration of strength and dominion. Haven’t had them often, but something’s gotten Mikhailovich annoyed enough to strut out and harp on them himself. Hard to even figure out what got him so riled. Man isn’t saying much beyond how grateful they all ought to be for the scarce food and drafty shacks.

“More than you _deserve_ ,” Mikhailovich bellows again, an arrogance in his voice, the sort only a self-made man will have. One that’s convinced himself of superiority through nothing but his own might. Was the same way that Seamus always used to talk, before they’d been done in by Rider. “Continue this disobedience, this slothfulness, and here will be your reward!” He flings one of his arms wide, the heavy stomp of horses echoing with the last of his words. Four come through a sudden parting on the far side of the gathering, the heaviness of their breath clouding in the air.

They step all the way out to the clearing where Mikhailovich stands ready, indifference in the face of each rider. Dramatics seem a favorite of the officer, but it’s still difficult to understand what he’s even trying to do.

Until a foreman drags a bound convict out there too, small and thin, a sack over his head, uncovered to the waist, pale flesh so mottled and ill.

A brief dread settles in Murphy’s blood. A whisper in his ear that says there’s nothing that’s about to happen next that he wants to witness.

Hardly seems like there’s much choice though. The horses are already getting positioned, a space left in the middle, where four slack ropes trail from the saddles. There’s not a sound but for the faint murmurs of protest that the wind doesn’t steal, snow and ice getting kicked high in the air as three foremen converge to get the convict trussed. Seems to be a fighter, thin as a branch and still struggling, head tossing so furious and aggrieved beneath the canvas of the sack. It finally just falls off after a particularly aggressive lunge, fury caught behind a cloth gag, hair flaring in the sunlight.

Hair that's as red as a harvest moon.

Can’t-, god, Murphy can’t _breathe_ , the whole of him going so tight. Can barely even see past those in front of him now, the elevation not the most level, but he can see that color, how the lay of the strands at the crown of the man’s head give the impression of length. More than enough for Murphy to know that he's touched that hair. Sure that he has, that he’s held it in his palm and pressed the cool depth of it to his lips in the darkness of night. Sure that he’s seen it corded high or left to flare against a too thin shoulder, has watched the strands hang forward past a sharp nose and dark freckles, knows what it looks like damp from a bath or how the faint light of stove vents will shine so warmly on the dark length.

He’s touched that hair, but now he _can’t_. The horde between him and Hans refuses to let Murphy press through, a silent agreement that straightens shoulders and forces heels into the ground. Hands take him, gripping in his coat, around his arms. Someone tall enough even stretches an arm around Murphy's face, clothed forearm pressed to his mouth, silencing the fury falling from his lips. Murphy gets why. Of course he gets _why_. Often enough the foremen don’t care about the real perpetrator of ruckus, and will just go after the whole lot surrounding the source with swords and bludgeons.

But that’s fine. They ought come here. Murphy will take those blades, will carve a path towards a man he never should have let get from his sight-.

“ _Remember this,_ ” Mikhailovich bellows, his voice rolling like thunder, like Murphy’s struggles don’t matter, like there’s nothing wrong with a man being lashed to steeds by each of his limbs, desperation echoing as sharp as any blade. “This is what you have wrought! This is the path you tread with such constant disobedience!”

Is that really Hans? Are those his cries, his terror echoing out?

Murphy bites down on the forearm smothering his anger, but the fabric is too thick, the hands on him too firm, too many of them to break away. They’ve almost forced him down to the ground, cusses snapped in his ear, demands all around for him to simmer, to quit, before someone decides to string them up next. Just-, goddamnit, Murphy can’t-, _he can’t get free_! He can’t help, can’t rush out and put a dagger to those ropes. Would in a moment, would right now. Murphy would bring Hans close in the space of a second and take one of those horses, bearing down on any that would get in his way with every sliver of his strength and fury. They’d run away, him and Hans, would leave this pit behind. Start afresh somewhere new, where the sun always shined and the dark depth of winter could never touch them.

There’s no time, no one letting up no matter how Murphy writhes, how he screams desperate murder behind his teeth. A snap of a whip, the shout of rearing horses, and then it’s like every beat of hooves against the ground stomps a hole in his chest, his heart, frigid terror rushing though him with a worse ache than he’s ever even known. No idea how much slack was in those ropes, every second weighing on his lungs with such dread and-.

Revulsion has a feel.

A sense, a sort of wave that pushes through when people are collectively forced to stomach terror. Isn’t anything like the hollering that will accompanying a hanging in the civilized world, not a one of the frozen spectators here clamoring for death and blood, but that doesn’t stop it from happening. There's a sound. The worst sound Murphy’s ever heard, what can only be the separation of muscle and bone, of a body coming apart, a scream so _loud-._

A cringe pushes through the crowd, the shoulders that Murphy can see going tense and aggrieved. Even the man forcing him to silence flinches, eyes averted when he finally lets Murphy loose and steps away.

There’s not another word by Mikhailovich. Not a single murmur by any of his foremen, the step of the steeds a faraway echo.

The convicts disperse, and Murphy finally sits up.

The cold is nothing. The wind just air.

Nothing left when the crowd is gone. Naught but red dying the ground, so deep and dark.

Not a scrap of cloth, nor even a lock of hair.

A woman touches his shoulder, too much kindness in her face. She doesn’t say anything, as if there’s anything to say. Not when it’s so clear that the brightest creature that’d ever existed in Murphy’s life just bled out into the snow.

-

Work. Sleep.

Shiver.

About all that Murphy does these days.

His heart beats slow and disinterested, the length of his beard enough to buffer his throat from the chill of arctic air.

Had one of those pale eyed bastards try to take it from him a few weeks ago.

Dead now, but Murphy had barely been bothered enough to see to his own defense. More accidental reflex than an actual attempt to keep himself unbloodied.

There’s a new king of the pit.

Some one-eyed man with coal dark skin. They’d not even traded a word when he’d first stepped towards Murphy on a march. A glance between them, and the man hadn’t bothered with his spiel, more sense to him than the last dozen.

Mikhailovich is always in a mood.

Always dissatisfied with the amount of trees that are felled or how much ore is being shipped off. He snaps and scowls and forever mutters about repentance, but just doesn’t seem able to grasp the realities of the situation. There’s just not enough skilled labor here to make the numbers he’s so intent on, no matter how much fresh meat the caravans drop off.

It’s not like most of them even make it past the first week. Murdered, already too far starved to survive the marches, sickness finally catching up, whatever the reason barely any stay on, no matter how the foremen bellow and gnash teeth.

-

Whip cracks on his back again.

Murphy isn’t expecting it, can’t entirely grit back a heavy breath of pain. Might be luck or intention, but it licked right in the midst of the ones from the day before, every welt rising and pulsing in such sudden fire.

A foreman laughs behind him, something like pride in her tone, “Looks like you’ve the hang of it.”

“Think so?” There’s excitement in the lad’s voice, like he’s just been taught something more worthwhile than inflicting pain on others. He does it again, enough bite to it that Murphy forgets how to breathe for a moment, has to use the depth of his pickaxe in the rock to keep himself standing. “Heh, right on the money!”

Murphy doesn’t turn, doesn’t do a thing beyond tugging his tool free and getting back to work, scarf bitten between his teeth so he doesn’t go through his lip when the lad sets to practicing again.

No reason to fight it. Not when he deserves this, the only penance he can manage. Each welt a mark of shame, a reminder that will pulse every step of the way back to the settlement. Not that Murphy needs one. There’s barely an hour that stutters past where he doesn’t think on green eyes gone creased in amusement, or how pale fingers would curl in silent slumber.

Still, he doesn’t do more than breathe and work another vein of ore open.

Nothing would come of it if he did resist, nothing but a quick blade against his throat, if they didn’t have it in mind to make another example about the price of disobedience.

Just-, no.

Can’t think on it.

Not without going to his knees and crying himself hoarse. To be honest, Murphy just can’t get it out of his mind some days, will stare at the ceiling or at the haft of his axe, that scream echoing again and _again_ between his ears. Can still feel the heavy grip of those hands on him, the useless strain of his muscles to be free, to do something, anything... 

There’s naught but one thing Murphy’s good for, and he couldn’t even strong-arm himself to Hans’ side. Couldn’t do anything but listen to every desperate sound, to the terrible rupture of sinew and flesh, nothing there to even gather when it was done, only crimson snow and the evidence of hooves. Like as not there isn’t a single person here who didn’t see the bloody stains, not with how the foremen kept marching the laborers past every morning and night until the artic covered it all up.

Murphy has to stop again.

Can’t convince himself to lift his arm and attack another plane of rock. There’s no point, hasn’t been one since they burned a circle into his palm. What’s it matter if he just stops? If he quits letting this lad lay into him? Murphy could jerk around and put this axe through the brat’s forehead in the space of a moment, could choke the foreman out with the whip before she had time to blow the horn on her waist.

Maybe he wouldn’t bother to be that quick though.

Would be glad to hear the blasting hail. Could take it from her and beat her face in with it, could imagine she was the one that dragged Hans out and forced him on his back, and all the while Murphy'd just be waiting for a stampede of boots and the clatter of unsheathed swords that would spell his death.

...That’s grim.

Grimmer thoughts than Murphy’s yet had on the tundra.

Not that there’s aught else to dwell on these days.

A heavy hand slaps down on his back just before he’s about got himself convinced to get back to work, the foreman’s voice sounding in his ear before Murphy can twist around and lay into whoever’s fool enough to touch him, “One time only, boy.” An envelope gets waved in front of his face, one he’s not slow to snatch and secret away.

-

“-going to be at the…fa-furth-, furthest-.” Murphy goes quiet at the sound of feet, as slight as his whispers had been. It’s hard for him to know what he’s reading unless he hears it, mostly just a jumble of letters and sounds in his head otherwise, but he’s not got much reason to actively let others listen in.

A moment and all is still again. He turns back to his letter, but can’t make anything out of the rest. The light’s too low, and Seamus’ script is all bunched and difficult to parse. Mayhaps he was rushing. Lot of good that does Murphy now, when he can’t tell one line from another. “…be a mark on the door…thrap? Throrn? Tlrer-.”

Nope, that’s it. Can’t tell a damn thing more.

It’s something though. More than he’s had since before there was a brand in his flesh. Murphy folds the letter and slides it through a rip in the inner lining of his coat, crossing his arms back over his chest to hold in what heat that he can. He’s got a direction now, a marker. A…purpose.

It’ll have to be enough.

-

It’s dark, the sky clear. The wind is strong, bellowing across the tundra like some epic beast bent on destruction and blood.

Murphy’s not one to get nervous, but that howling’s getting to him right now. He’s never heard it so deep and droning, roaring like the same sort of monster that old codgers claim to be tearing through the depths of the ocean.

The white fields are little different than the expanse of sea at present, stretching endlessly away, something like a wave in the distance when a heavy gust lifts snow and crashes it back down. Maybe there is some beast out there, a prowling creature that sneaks near in the depths of a blizzard, devouring the remains of those foolish or unlucky enough to be out in such. Murphy hasn’t the least trouble imagining such at the moment, can easily make himself see hanging fangs that gleam in moonlight, a body that ripples with scale or fur, pale as the bitterest peak of the mountains, eyes cold as the winter sky.

Shivers again, idiot that he is, getting riled over nothing.

Murphy turns back to his task, squinting to make out the edges of the siding on the shack before him. He’s a bit surprised there’s one so close to the housing pits. Barely any other structures left on the settlement, compared to what there was. Makes it beyond hard to skulk about with any sort of confidence that he’s not seen, edging around every building like a thief.

Not that he isn’t one.

Evident enough at present as he takes stock of his current target, sliding a quick hand across the surface. The grain is smooth, almost a slickness to it. Should be enough to get him down the hill.

Murphy digs his fingers under the edge, bends it away from the building quiet as he can. The nails creak and whine when they snap, even iron made brittle on the tundra. Has to bend it up over his head, trying to get the longest piece he can out of it, has a half a thought that the more room he has to stretch out the less likely he’ll be to tumble off. The sheet finally comes free in a scattering of ice, the top edge jagged as the groan of snapping wood echoes once through the night. Still, it came away a stride and half long. Enough room for Murphy to balance decently.

Will be just the thing for going down the hill behind the old shack. Snow there should be slick as anything, with how many baths got emptied over the edge. Will get him gone quick and hopefully unseen, going the direction Seamus wrote. Not much of a plan, but so long as Murphy has a destination, a surety of where there will be shelter and supplies waiting to take him in from the snow, then this stunt might even be survivable.

In theory.

Hah. Seems like something Hans would’ve said, crossing his arms and lifting a brow at Murphy like he’d never seen something so foolish.

God, but that hits him so fierce, a burn in his chest, his eyes, something almost like _betrayal_ flaring through his blood. Murphy's never hated himself so much as he does right now, on the cusp of being done from this frozen hell, his salvation in hand, more of the same waiting to the south.

Can’t think on it. Can’t think on _him_ , not if Murphy expects to have the strength to do this. He-, he can have his grief later, knows he’ll forever carry the weight of it until his blood goes still, but he’s got responsibilities, expectations to fulfill. Isn’t like Seamus would just give up if Murphy didn’t show. The fool would stomp across the tundra himself if he had to, would come all the way to this pit of despair and ice, and likely get himself killed in the attempt, just because Murphy hadn’t been able to shoulder his own burden for long enough to get off this godforsaken plateau.

That’s it.

There’s nothing else he can do.

Not if he doesn’t want another senseless death on his head.

-

Just the sight of the shack makes his stomach clench all sour and sad when Murphy finally gets near.

It’s not in sight of the housing blocks, on the other side of the mounded plateau that is the settlement, so he can even take a moment and stare at the remnants of a different life. One nearly as cold as his current existence is, but still so much brighter. Had known the strangest sort of accomplishment coming home to a lit stove, dinner already set out and as much conversation available as he felt like partaking of. Clean clothes, soft bedding, a housemate that made forced labor not so terrible.

Foolish, of course, but Murphy can’t help thinking on their time that way. As if it was something different, something better, than two men doing what they could to survive in a land so opposed to such.

Stands there so long, growing colder by the moment, but it’s so blasted difficult to step past the front, or to do much but wonder what it’s being used for now. The door looks different, like maybe it got replaced. If he chipped away at the ice and snow he might even find a chain there, a padlock too. Might be a supply shed now, or any number of things. Not like it really matters. This isn’t home anymore.

Was a bit sad that it ever even was.

Murphy sighs and drops his gaze, the heaviness of his breath stolen by an arctic gust. About to hike the stolen pack on his back a bit higher when something moves on the far extent of his sight. The beginning clamor of panic only catches at his blood for a moment before he realizes that bit of darkness for what it is. Just a shadow, creeping out from around the other edge of the shack. One slight enough that Murphy’s nerves hardly even flare, even as a dark shape steps past the far corner, one that trembles in the faintness of starlight.

Something familiar about that shaking. Murphy lifts his gaze, can’t help how the whole of him tightens so much worse to meet the barely there gleam of spring sea eyes.

Hard to even manage breath when Hans just stares back at him, the scrap of his scarf twisting in the wind. He’s hardly dressed, everything so thin and threadbare. There’s nothing left of the coat, though he’s still got those strange sandals he crafted.

God, but Murphy’s so beyond glad to see that, no matter how wrecked the rest of him looks.

Not that Murphy’s any better, not when he’s shaking himself, a desperate heat climbing his face and clenching his throat. “Hey,” he grits out, so bare a sound against the tundra’s roar. He can’t try again, not yet, eyes misting, about set to overflow, something so beyond grand about the slip of a creature before him.

Hans doesn’t say a word back, doesn’t even blink, something so strange about him. So unreal.

Murphy just clears his swelling throat, relief still flaring through his blood like fire, a new buffer against the midnight cold. He’s not got even a moment’s sympathy for whoever did get torn apart in Mikhailovich’s ire, just a rush of joy that neither of them have any time to indulge in at present. “You-, you alright?” he manages, trying to recall his purpose as he lifts a hand and slides a step closer, so incapable of seeing this man and not reaching for him.

Shouldn’t have done that, he’s lost the right. Hans just presses back towards his corner, like Murphy could ever be a threat to him. He hunkers down a little low, his hair a churlish grey, cut short and jagged. Something fierce to him. Steel that hasn’t been tempered right.

Sharp, but not so far from breaking.

Murphy can’t make his feet move away, knows he has scant time but can’t convince himself of the necessity. “Come here.”

Hans doesn’t move though, still quivering, still staring at Murphy like he’s come across something uncertain. Time hasn’t been good to him, nothing clearer in all the world. Makes Murphy furious in ways he didn’t even know he could be, anger pushing up from deep in his core, a sort of smoldering writhe that makes breathing more of a struggle than it already-.

A horn blares.

Almost sharp and sudden enough to stop his heart, but Murphy doesn’t have time to be startled. Doesn’t even have time to convince the scrap of a man before him of safety, so he just jerks forward and grabs a distressingly thin arm, forcing Hans against his side and lunging for the hill.

It’s such a shock when Hans fights him, Murphy near fumbling as he puts an arm around his stomach and lifts, sprinting now, the crest in sight. There are sharp movements against his chest, bony palms trying to push away, spindle thin legs kicking at his knees, but Murphy just holds tight, nothing but the rush of wind in his ear, and then he’s dropping Hans on the sled, has to climb on top to keep him still.

Nothing to do but jerk forward then, knees on either side of Hans’s writhing hips as the wooden slab tips over the icy edge.

Then there’s spears in his face, the wind lashing like it’s trying to peel his skin. Murphy’s eye waters, moisture freezing on his face. He tries to curl down, covering Hans as best he can, though it hardly matters. The wind goes right through them, screaming in Murphy’s ear the further they go, everything a blur of moonlight and snow. Can’t hardly see the trees that speed towards them, nothing but upright shadows that he’s barely got the presence of mind to try and steer around. Fingers are already screaming on the sides of the slab, so frigid and aching in an icy burn even though he’s got gloves on. No other way to control the mad descent though, something Murphy was fool enough to not even _consider._

No idea if they were chased, if the whole settlement hasn’t been forced to wake as bugles and foremen bellowed in the dark. Hard to think of anything past the impossible man against his chest and the brisk terror of wind in his face. Never been so glad for a beard in all his life, even though it makes the barest of difference at present. Worst kind of cold is when it doesn’t even feel like it should, when there’s little beyond pain and the frigid burning of skin, like frost is diving down into flesh with barbed hooks, twisting through blood and bone, so intent on freezing a body out from the inside.

Murphy can’t even keep his face up, no idea how far they’ve slid or how far they’ve yet got to go. Has to just tuck down atop Hans’ shoulder, the rest of his body going flat as much as it can, hardly lessening the fear that he’s about to tumble off this fool sled and slam his head against a tree or a frozen boulder. Wouldn’t be a surprise.

Seems like something the world would do, taking away his life now that he’s got the means of escape and happiness in his very _hands_.

Not that either of those are even conscious concepts in a moment, a sudden impact stealing Murphy’s attention. A second later it’s like he’s weightless, stomach flipping as he loses grip on the sled, on Hans, arching high and horrible through the open air.

Nothing exhilarating in it, nothing but stark terror as the bluff rushes up to meet them.

-

Can barely walk, the snow heavy and up to his thighs.

Hans isn’t helping. Won’t quite struggling, trying to push him off, but Murphy just holds tight to his wrist. Doesn’t have the time to wonder about whether Hans has got the madness again, or even to pause a moment to weather the grief that flares so strong and swift to see the evidence of his betrayal trying to dig teeth into his gloved fingers. Can’t do anything but keep his legs stiff, pushing the snow aside, trying to make a decent lane.

Still so beyond cold, the whole of him burning in a frozen fire. Almost like he’s not even clothed, the wind pushing through so easy, so constant. Seems strange. Murphy had thought it wouldn’t be so windy once down from the plateau of the settlement. Can’t help how aggrieved he is to see that he was wrong, to feel every stiff gust try to knock him over.

Nothing to do but move forward, to follow the stars, to trust that Seamus hasn’t done him wrong.

Almost seems like the march Murphy made to this frozen hell. Snow won’t quit falling so constant and thick, and they walk so blasted long, a never ending trudge towards a haven that might not even be there. Feet are numb, legs stiff as frost catches hold on the length of Murphy’s beard. Can’t even do a thing beyond watching the slow swing of his own legs or glancing back to where Hans has exhausted himself, looking like some sort of winter wraith as he stumbles forward in the evidence of Murphy’s steps, still trying to pull away every little while.

There’s a faint light in the sky, grey and indistinct, dawn pushing through the forever clouds of this place. Doesn’t really make anything easier. The snow still falls so endlessly, everything a bland wash of white whenever he tries to look, the wind so often forcing him to keep his head bowed.

Might be what gets them in a bit of a predicament.

Becomes impossible to follow the remnants of the stars soon enough. Not even the fault of the sky getting brighter, but more the giant up-thrust of rock that calls a halt to Murphy’s forward plod. About a dozen strides to it before he even takes note, squinting through the white flurry that has been more than happy to accompany them into morning. Can’t do anything but stutter to a stop, neck then aching in his attempt to see to the top of the rock face. Not that he even can.

There’s only one decision to make then. Right or left.

One way’s a flat plane of white and grey, so much snow, forever falling. Other way isn’t much better, but there’s what might be a treeline. Be a little bit of shelter from the snow at least.

But that doesn’t help them. They’ve got to get inside, get to real shelter, something that’ll keep the wind at bay and the snow from overhead. Someplace with a hearth, with something burnable, at the very least.

But which way? When did Murphy get off track? While they were trekking? Maybe when they were sliding down from the plateau?

Can’t tell. He’s still so addled, can’t think past the constant ache of his body. Has to make a choice, wasn’t doing them any good standing still, “This way, then.”

“Nn.”

Murphy turns, breath barely warm enough to fog anymore, “Eh?”

Hans doesn’t make any more noise, not even looking at him but across the field. Murphy looks, sees a shadow through the snow, what might even be a roof.

-

It is. There’s even a cross scratched beside the door frame. Murphy’s about set to cry when he sees it, almost laughs from the elation crashing through him. Tries to share his joy, about to clap Hans on the back, but gets such wild eyes and bared teeth when he tries. It’s fine though, Murphy’s just _fine_ , beyond pleased that there’s a roof they can warm themselves beneath.

Takes more effort than it ought to get inside, the door near frozen to the frame. Murphy can’t understand how, less it warmed up enough recently for rain to fall. He just puts his shoulder against it, once, twice, and a half dozen times more before it finally gives in a splintering of ice and wood. Shoulder aches then, a pounding pressure as Murphy sucks in air and steps through, reaching back to grab Hans’ arm before he tries to scamper too far.

Inside isn’t much to speak over, everything just as cold in as out, frost etching the walls and rafters. Doesn’t look like there’s even been life in here in years or more, but for the faint imprint of steps below, made distinct where frost built up on the edges of a boot’s tread. Easy enough to imagine who they belong to, something like relief dropping Murphy’s shoulders all the more. There’s nothing else but a table and a couple spindly chairs, as weathered as everything else appears. There’s a stack of logs in the hearth though, so Murphy sets to getting them lit after getting the door shoved back shut, no matter than he can hardly strike the flint with his fumbling fingers.

Still, damn grand of Seamus to think of it.

Hans doesn’t come near while Murphy tends the meagre flames, is standing at the threshold like he’s itching to go back out. There’s such a wildness to him, eyes as intense as a beast’s, something that promises a fight if anything were to touch him. He finally glances over when Murphy calls sometime later, head cocked like a cat, eyes narrow and full of suspicion until he sees the fire.

Comes near then, crouches and puts his hands out to the flames, still so strangely unfamiliar to Murphy’s sight.

His freckles seem darker than they used to be, like he’s gotten paler, less blood in him than there ever was before. So easy to see where he’s been hurt, even where he’s been grabbed at recently. There’s a dark gauntness in his face, concentrated under his gleaming eyes. Scratches litter his forearms, angry red lines that look barely scabbed. Dark smears of color show past the rents in his shirt, a nasty muddiness of greens and blues that makes the rest of his skin so bright, almost like there’s a white fire burning beneath his flesh.

If only there were. Maybe he wouldn’t look so cold then, so ruined and wretched. Murphy goes sour looking at him, can’t help imagining how he gained each hurt, how he likely woke each morning wishing his heart had stopped in the night. And only because he’d been alone, been so slight and weak, no one there to keep the monsters at bay without demanding of his body in turn.

Murphy’s knows better than to think that wasn’t the way of it, saw enough of the same in his own housing. Can only imagine Hans is so wrecked because he didn’t take such an offer readily, maybe he tried to keep himself standing apart, spoiled on how he’d been left to himself in their shack.

Everything twists so terrible at that, a clenching all through Murphy, made the worse with the resistant frigidness of his limbs.

Makes him recall his pack though, and the bare supplies within.

There’s no food, not even a handful of raw rice, but there’s a blanket, thickest one Murphy could lay claim to at the time. The fabric isn’t even cold in Murphy’s grasp, all of him still so frigid that he can’t even tell. There’s something comforting about being covered though, about having a little separation from the rest of the world.

Hans glances up when Murphy walks over, gone all tense at the sound of feet, but actually settles when the blanket gets dropped over his shoulders. Always seemed the most content in their shack when he was curled up in covers, be it in their nest or at the table, something more alive to his words and voice whenever he’d been able to tuck himself into soft warmth. Even now his thin lips stretch in a small smile as he slowly grips each edge and pulls the fabric tighter around himself.

Murphy’s not expecting words, nearly startled when Hans speaks up minutes later, something faraway in his faint voice, “I…am n-not entirely…sure that this isn’t madness.”

Wouldn’t be so frigid if it was. Murphy’s not got the imagination to put himself through this much ache, “…Isn’t.”

Hans just turns back to the flames, still that small smile, “But you… _hah_.” He shakes his head, pushing a quivering hand over his face, “Oh, Murphy, you-, you would say that if it were.”

Murphy hasn’t an answer to that. Isn’t so relieved as he thought he’d be to hear Hans’ voice.

-

Couple hours pass, nothing outside, the only sound at all the crackle of the fire.

Hans hasn’t said anything more, still curled up by the hearth, the flames shining in his tired eyes. He’s not slept, not that Murphy understands why. Not like he’d let a single thing through the door that’d have even the barest intention of doing Hans any harm.

Maybe Hans doesn’t think he would though. Not…not after how quick Murphy was to shove him to the wolves before. That isn’t something so easy to fix, what trust that was between them bent, maybe too far.

Murphy can’t look at him, just drags a chair to the wall to glare through the patch he made in the frost on the window…Not sure if what they had can ever be repaired. He isn’t even sure what they _had_ , to be honest.

A lie.

Sort of.

Murphy is familiar enough with himself to know better, doesn’t have the patience to be false in the murk of his own thoughts. Knows what he wants, what he likes, what makes his chest go light and warm and clenched in a furious possessive rage. And every bit of it is wrapped up in a blanket before the fire, so slight and underfed, so wane and pale and maybe yet on the crumbling edge of sanity.

He’s got no idea what to even say in the face of that, no idea what to even do. Not even sure what Hans will let him attempt. Murphy’s yet got indents in his knuckles from where teeth bit down through his gloves, everything about Hans so desperate and determined to be away, like Murphy was really so great of a threat. Just because he’s curled up by some heat doesn’t mean he’ll be thinking any different when the time comes to move from here. There’s…there’s no telling what he’ll be like, if he’ll even stomach the thought of letting Murphy herd him the rest of the way from the tundra.

Should figure that out maybe.

Before Seamus gets here and forces Hans’ hackles up more than they already are without a stranger present.

Murphy stands with the intention of doing that, of determining just what sort of coherency Hans is managing at present. Steps towards the fire, the boards so hard and frozen underfoot that they don’t even creak as he crouches to the side of the hearth and puts his hands out, more an excuse to come near than actively seeking the warmth at present. Cuts his gaze to the side, but decides against actually attempting any conversation.

Hans is finally asleep.

Murphy can tell even though Hans’ face is tucked down in to the blanket, laid aside him too often to be mistaken. There’s a deep memory in his muscles, of long strands sliding though his fingers. He hates that he can’t do that anymore, hates more to see the deep redness so spoiled, so thoroughly grimed with ash and soot. Hans shouldn’t have had to do that just to stay alive. Shouldn’t have had to get so thin, the blanket near swallowing him.

Has to stand and turn away again, fists clenched so tight and terrible. There’s such a sickness in his chest, a guilt that boils so fierce and insistent, and Murphy’s so far past trying to reason with it, with trying to excuse how he left this dear creature to be torn apart by cold and criminals.

Isn’t even worthy of Hans’ forgiveness, if such was ever even offered. Not when-.

Something murmurs outside. More than the wind, than snow.

Sounds almost like a stride. Like someone coming near.

The door swings open a bare second later, and Murphy doesn’t even need to look. He remembers that heavy tread, remembers it like his own name.

Still, he turns and matches Seamus’ grin, face aching with the foreignness of cheer, “Bit late.”


	6. Chapter 6

Seamus laughs as loud as he ever did, pulls Murphy in and squeezes the air from his chest in as fierce an embrace as the tundra’s ever seen, “Bit late, he says!” Awful thicker than Murphy’s used to, though might just be that Seamus has managed more than rice to keep himself fed. Got a few inches of beard on him as well, though nothing so ragged and long as Murphy’s, “Not seen you in four years and I’m a bit late? Hah!”

Hard to breathe for a long moment, to even move or to think. Halfway sure this isn’t even real, that he’s not got his brother in his sight, in his _grasp_. Makes letting go a chore, one that Murphy’s not ready to even try for yet.

Seamus doesn’t let him anyway, just holds him so tight, shaking his head on Murphy’s shoulder, half a chuckle still dropping from his lips as if this is just as strange for him. Likely is though. They’ve not been apart for more’n a week in all their lives, and suddenly Murphy can’t even understand how he survived so long without walking alongside a man that’s nearly a mirror of himself.

One more clasp of Murphy's shoulder, strong as ever, before Seamus pulls away, though not so far that the distance can become painful. There’s a bottle in his grasp, a familiar self-satisfaction in his grin, “Think I wouldn’t bring something to get you warmed up proper?”

Murphy can't remember the last time he grinned this wide. He's not one to baulk at a bit of rotgut and gestures Seamus over to the chairs, not more than a moment's thought for the ancient creak that sounds as they get settled. The alcohol is a decent distraction from the cold, burns like the sort of heat that Murphy almost can’t remember. He starts to coughs when it goes down his throat, pathetic as that is, but Seamus just laughs again and pounds him on the back, the sort of familiarity that Murphy hadn’t even realized that he'd been missing.

"Well?" Murphy rasps out after he’s managed to swallow, though at least now it's more the fault of the liquor instead of his own desperate cheer. "How you been?"

Seamus snorts before taking his own swig, "Better'n you, but that hardly needs saying."

It's there's not truth to that then Murphy's not got much idea why he spent near half a decade mining ore and fighting for handfuls of rice. He's about to say that too, more an attempt at humor than anything, but his brother’s face makes him think twice. There’s a hesitance to the level of his eyes. Even such a firm clench to his jaw, brows all furrowed and together like he’s all set to take his lumps.

And apparently he is, shoulders lowering as he sighs, “…I won’t forget-.”

Just about makes Murphy roll his eye, “Don’t.” He punches Seamus’ shoulder, something familiar in it, “Was nothing.” Feels like a lie, and he’s quick to cover it up, chapped lips twisting up in something like humor, “You and I both know you’d not of lasted a fortnight.”

Any other day his brother would’ve taken offense, would have gotten to crowing about his own might and in a moment they’d of been rolling on the floor, tussling about something foolish and so far from important. But Seamus doesn’t even try to play it off the same way Murphy wants to, won’t quit looking at him like he's staring at something so much more strange than his own blood. “Wasn’t nothing,” he finally manages, gruff as anything. "Shouldn't’ve ever happened. Should've been me rotting in that godforsaken-.”

“Stow it,” Murphy groans, leaning back enough that the spindles of the chair sound another protest. “You think I would’ve managed to keep my head down? Or to convince that baron you wrote about to take us on?” Seamus doesn't have a reply, his eyes a measure more intense than they were prior, like he's not sure what to do in the face of his regret being argued against. “Did what we were suited to,” Murphy mutters, another swig taken, not that it goes down any easier than the last. “Figure that's the long and short of it.” He's honestly not got a care that Seamus' deed got four years of his life swallowed by the tundra. Made peace with that before he'd even weathered his first blizzard.

Had to if he’d wanted to survive. There’d been little so deadly up on that plateau as a man refusing to accept the realities of his situation, earned or otherwise.

Seamus mulls it for a bit before he finally works up the stones to murmur back, “You…you figure?” It’s barely heard, that sort of low tone that gives evidence to exactly how much he'd like that to be the case.

Good. Tundra didn't leave Murphy with the greatest of patience for this kind of dithering, bemoaning happenings long past. “ Aye,” Murphy agrees, offering his brother the neck of the bottle, as much a gesture of goodwill as he can manage at present. “What's done is done, ain't got a single hard feeling over what made good sense.”

“Was the best way to manage everything,” Seamus replies after a short swig, voice rasped from something far deeper than the burn of alcohol. Obvious, with the way his eyes finally lift, relief so evident in the line of his shoulders and ease of his brow. “Good sense,” he repeats, starting to grin, eyes creased as he reaches forward, grabbing Murphy's shoulder and tugging him until their foreheads meet. “God, brother, but I _missed_ you.” The encroaching tension breaks, a fresh calm in the wake of a storm.

Not that they're really so calm after.

Soon enough it’s like the world only exists so far as the wooden walls, laughter and stories making the frigid weather little more than a memory. Hans doesn't move throughout, side still lifting in easy pulls of his lungs. Must be beyond exhausted to not stir with the noise that Murphy and his brother have to be making.

“-then-, and I swear this ain’t a lie, -then she gets to her feet, spitting piss and vinegar-.”

Isn’t a thing so grand as this. Having at with someone that knows Murphy just as well as he knows himself, cheer growing between them like flowers do in summer. Neither of them are so delicate as all that, but there's something beyond refreshing to be in the presence of someone so familiar, so known. There's nothing Murphy's gotta pretend to be, naught that's false in their talk. They're so natural, as only kin can be, an ease felt that Murphy's never had with another. He might adore Hans with a strength he'd never fathomed possible, but even with him things were never this easy. Murphy never feels so much like a fool in his brother's company, no matter that he knows he's not got the same sort of smarts.

"-biggest bastard you've seen in your life, bar _none,_ and I had to beat him down with a broken pickaxe-."

Never feels like he has to compensate around Seamus, to make himself appear more than he is. More intelligent or worldly, or whatever it is that always used to dog his thoughts when caught in conversation with Hans. They’re crass and coarse, laughter barked out with little care of the sound made, no different than they’d be in a tavern, soused in ale and warmth and food. It’s natural like nothing else has ever been to sit with his brother and let the world move around them. To forget the struggles faced to get this far and just exist in drink and laughter.

Everything’s so easy between them that it makes the night longer than maybe it ought to be. Not sure how tired Seamus might be, but the fire is barely low before Murphy starts mussing his words. Can't even blame it on the alcohol. Least he damn well hopes he's not lost his tolerance. Used to be able to drink Seamus clean out of every bit of coin in his purse, and his brother's not even winced a once at the fire of this rotgut.

"-half a stride more and I'd of-, Murphy?" There's something jarring about his name, but only because it makes him come away from the dull haze behind his eye, the sort of burn left behind that gives evidence of denied slumber. Seamus knows it just as well, chapped lips set in a grin once Murphy wakes up enough to focus on him, "You bailing on me, brother?"

"Might be," Murphy admits, another swig taken like he can convince himself that he's not a lightweight, "much as I'd like to hear more of you whoring yourself up the coast."

Seamus just erupts, could no doubt shake a mountain with the strength of his laughter. His cheer is infectious, Murphy's lips turning up no matter how godawful tired he is. "Can't say I blame you," Seamus tells him, as if he's got any idea of the cold Murphy weathered to get here. He even steals the bottle, head tossed back to empty it. Doesn't even choke a once, the bastard. "Couldn’t even make it far enough to see where they were keeping you lot the few times I tried. Imagine that was some trek to get down."

"Not exactly a skip down the lane," Murphy manages, jaw cracking with the strength of his yawn.

Seamus laughs again, pushing to his feet and clapping Murphy on the shoulder. "Get you some shut eye, brother, and I'll see about this-."

“He’s fine.” Murphy doesn’t glance over at the hearth, to where Seamus' eyes have strayed more than a few times. Doesn’t snap or snarl since he’s sure he doesn’t need to, but Murphy still waits until he's got his brother's eyes again, “You’ll stay off him.”

That crooked grin, Seamus thinking nothing tender, “Will I?”

It’s been too long since they’ve seen each other apparently. That, or Seamus just doesn’t care for how seriously Murphy means this. So he grabs his brother’s arm when Seamus starts to stride past, grips it tight enough to convey his mood, “You will.”                          

-

The march doesn't feel so different from any other Murphy's been on recently. He's following direction, trying to ignore the building aches of his body. His left knee's giving him more trouble than it ought, something likely strained in the muscle after that fool stunt with his scavenged sled.

Seamus had laughed like he'd never before heard a joke after Murphy'd finally admitted to how he'd gotten down from the camp without getting chased. Eyes all creased, holding himself up on a chair, near incapable of words when he'd finally tossed over a coat and a rucksack so less torn and mangled than the scrap Murphy'd brought along. One better supplied as well, another bottle of liquor and a bundle of dried something inside.

He'd had no idea if it was meat or fish, and Murphy hadn't actually cared. Food is food, and he hadn't been shy about getting a piece between his teeth.

Even chewing on one right now as he wades through a bluff, making as much of a lane as he's got the patience for right now. Still not sure what creature he's eating, but that hardly matters when he's got his brother and his-, when he's got his brother and Hans following behind.

To have them both near is a pipe dream Murphy never even thought to have, and as much as he loves and adores Seamus like none other, it’s more difficult than he’d imagined getting back used to him in daylight.

Likely his own fault though. Seamus is the same he’s ever been. Quick to poke fun, more snark in his talk than anything else. Just gets a little grating to hear complaint so often, like snow and the chill of winter is something he’s never felt.  But to be fair Seamus hasn’t weathered nothing like this. Not like Murphy has. And if it lessens his exhaustion and aches to gripe as they travel, then there’s no reason not to let him.

Hans doesn’t make any comment about the weather. Or about anything. Hasn’t said a word since Murphy introduced the two. Barely said anything then either. Had only cocked his head to the side, staring at Seamus so intensely, an almost mad gleam in his eyes. Murphy'd been more than willing to beg but after a moment Han had quietly agreed to come along, as if unaware that Murphy would've tied him to his back before ever again leaving him behind to an uncertain fate.

Silence aside, Hans seems some measure more aware. Like he’s decided that he’s still sane. Gets so tense when Murphy’s close though, pulls his hands back to hide in the folds of the blanket, like he’s nervous for his shaking to be seen. Not really strange for him to act like that, not when it’s the last thing Murphy even said to him. Nothing about how grand it was to have Hans in his life, or how he never wanted him to leave. Didn’t say a damned word about how he’d made Murphy remember what it was like to enjoy company beyond himself.

Can't make it known now. Not when he's near certain Hans will leave if he does, and no doubt be swept away by bandits or ice when he's so thin and exposed.

Won't make mention of that either, but Hans is likely decently familiar with his own inadequacies. Has to be. The tundra's not a place where you can lie to yourself overlong without there being consequences.

But Hans’ thoughts are his own, as they always have been, though Seamus’ amusement at the twig of a man trailing after them is more than clear. Murphy knows what he assumes, but doesn't bother to correct him. Not when that might be the only thing encouraging him to keep his mitts to himself.

-

There are no mountains in the Southern Isles. Only endlessly rolling hills that eventually smooth out to the ocean. There are forests throughout, thin and threadbare until one reaches the southern border, where they grow thick and tall, the canopies so emerald a green and forever glossy beneath the summer sun.

Large as the forests can be, they are nothing to the immensity of up-thrust rock that Hans gets closer to every day.

The mountains take such grand dominion of the horizon. The awakening of the day itself is given halt by so vast a foe, golden glory arching past the high peaks in eventual victory. Hans wakes each day in their shadow, so immense a dread surging the closer they get to such snowcapped majesty.

They are vastly less picturesque when Hans sets to climbing.

But perhaps this is incorrect. It may be that they still pierce the sky like frosted blades, the sun cutting around their grand might, a glorious golden hue spreading forth every evening and morn, but Hans hasn’t even the barest of energy to care. His legs constantly burn no matter the cold, sweat freezing his brow with every gust of wind. His already ragged footwear grows so frail and frayed, the leather straps rife with lines and flayed cracks. His feet are so cold, and every moment of conscious existence Hans waits for that old itch, the one that forced him to forever part with a bit of his bone and flesh.

It’s all so vaguely familiar, so reminiscent of when Hans was first forced to this land.

Murphy is the only salvation, as ever. His mammoth breadth the only thing that keeps the gales at bay, the only warmth at night, never a complaint as Hans walks in his shadow or curls against his girth when a rest is decided upon. They’ve had no shelter of note in days, forced to cower against the frigid rock face whenever the winds surge so horrifically high. Some days Hans is sure that he'll be lifted away like a parchment kite, or stolen the same way that a sea gust will swallow a sailor's words, long lost and never again to be heard.

In the shadow of these earthly titans Hans can barely think. Every morning he despairs silently to himself, tucked against the back of Murphy's shoulder as if asleep, relishing what meagre heat they've built in defiance of the harsh winds.

Another day, he bargains to himself while stretching in the chill of a new sun.

Another hour, he begins to cajole once that same marker begins to sink below the horizon.

Another night, he pleads to his worthless body, mouthing soundless words into his forever trembling hands as they lie huddled in the darkness.

All evidence of how thoroughly his body has declined. That he has escaped, is now free of the tundra’s dominion, barely registers. How can it, when all around Hans the same frigidity exists? When snow is forever hazing down from the sky, shuttled along by every gale? Often he is so sure that frost builds daily on his shoulders, that soon ice will encase his flesh and freeze his blood. That he will be formed into a creature akin to that mammoth beast of the witch’s, bound by a will not his own, so shrouded in the whiteness of winter that nothing of himself could even possibly remain.

But the bluffs are then not so thick. The winds are less aggressive, as if no more so determined to throw Hans from the steep heights. The path becomes less difficult to find, to walk, his legs only forced to endure his own weight instead of trudging through freshly fallen snow. Less bowed are his shoulders, eyes on the path ahead instead of clinging desperately to the ground or the evidently eternal sturdiness that is Murphy Stabbington.

It is like he returns to himself when they finally leave the mountains behind.

Existence seems less impossible to manage even though he is still so incredibly chilled, the fires they've managed since that scarcely remembered shack hardly worth the flame.

An ungrateful thought, when Hans would never have survived if not for that meagre warmth.

Strange that such sullenness bothers him.

Or perhaps it is only strange that Hans even noticed.

-

There are often eyes on him.

Hardly a strange affair, though Hans isn't quite sure the last time that attention was something desired. Preference was barely anything that mattered on the tundra, his own wants so endlessly overridden by those with the health and strength to do so.

Murphy's brother has that strength. Is so inescapably healthy, more massive than Murphy has ever been in Hans’ memory. Or-, no, massive isn't correct. They stand the same height, similar in the way that only those that share a birth can be. But this new Stabbington, this Seamus, is so much thicker. There is a fullness to his face that suggests true hunger is a state unknown. He is not swarthy or plump, but still there is a give to his flesh that Murphy doesn’t have so much of, determined those few times when Hans was too tired and unaware to care as a brother had taken rest on either side of him. Seamus had never done what his eyes seemed so intent on those times, but Hans isn’t even sure if he would have had the energy to resist.

But perhaps it is not Seamus’ stare that is so often prickling the back of his neck. Maybe it is only Murphy playing the shepherd, as strangely insistent as he'd been to take Hans from that place of forever frost and fear. He does not linger long those few times Hans catches his gaze, the returned sight of that patch strangely aggravating now that Hans has the sense to notice. To hear him speak has become something of a rarity, Murphy resorting near entirely back to the vernacular that had colored so much of their early interactions. Grunts and half formed words, grumbled exhales that his brother appears to understand effortlessly.

Hans almost feels as if he is on a safari like those he'd read about as a child, his soldier so captivated an audience in his lap as he'd read aloud. There are no beasts of fang or fur, but to see these two siblings interact so...easily seems just as rare a sighting as a jungle tiger. They nudge each other with their shoulders, quiet amusements muttered between them. The wind carries some of their talk to Hans’ ears as he follows, though more often than not it is only Seamus' voice that is at all audible. Usually a tale of some debauchery, every word ringing with such esteem of self, near sickening in its presence.

A bitter thought, but Hans does not care.

There is little about this second Stabbington that he does not detest, the girth of him an insult, his layers nothing so piecemeal as Hans' own. There is a swarthy self-satisfaction to his entire demeanor that is aggravating to witness. Seamus walks as if a man without care, talks so brashly of personal conquests and his own capabilities as if the shame of defeat has never soured his stomach. He is so _false_ , so divergent from his brother in every worthwhile way.

Hans cannot even understand why only now he has met this man, or why Seamus was free to procure the supplies and shelter necessary to take Murphy in from the terrible chill of the tundra. They were guilty of the same crime, from Hans’ understanding, and it rings so incredibly unfair that Murphy was in some way forced to know the consequences for them both.

An observation Hans has not yet had the courage to make.

For all that Murphy is again his protector, though surely only until civilization is found, he is so strangely…cowed, by his brother. There is not another way to describe it, not when Hans is sure that he’s known the same false banter from those siblings of his less inclined to forever ignore him. Constant are Seamus’ comments, jibes never ending, always such a cajoling nature to his tone. As if Murphy could be convinced to know humor at whatever shortcomings his brother can imagine.

The cause for that old hesitance Murphy had to make clear his lack of comprehension becomes starkly evident. No doubt he knew little but ridicule from youth to whenever he left his brother’s presence. But even then perhaps those letters that Murphy thought himself so skilled at concealing were filled with the same mockery and scorn.

Great as his annoyance is, even when alone with Murphy the courage to comment on his brother fails to appear. Hidden now in a little clearing within the forest, they wait while Seamus is off investigating a settlement a half mile down the valley. Necessary, when unsure if two escaped convicts had been reported in the region, maybe even with promise of a reward for capture. Still, perhaps his silence is the fault of exhaustion, or that Hans hasn't quite regained his ease in spoken word.

Either way, Murphy surprisingly takes the initiative, the low rumble mistaken for a faraway murmur of thunder until Hans realizes there are syllables to be heard.

Never one to ignore this dear man’s rare desire to have conversation, Hans lifts his head from the top of his knees, the heat of the fire bathing his face, "Pardon?"

Murphy has that sort of set to him that spells hesitance, the same telling furrow in his brow that was ever present when he attempted to parse words with spellings less phonetic. His jaw is clenched beneath the still strange mass of his beard, visible in how the hair going up either side of his jaw is some measure elevated. "After....after we weren't-". He seems incapable of making his query verbal twice, assuming he managed it at all the first time. "Just-, did you get ...bothered at all?"

Hans hasn't the fortune to be unclear of Murphy's meaning. There is nothing he could refer to but for those hellish months beneath that bellowing man, that...

Lord, he can't even remember the name of that tyrant, the one that ruined what had been more a home than Hans has ever had in the entirety of his petty life.

The failings of his memory aside, Murphy seems to believe conversation on this subject is necessary, a sort of stoic determination in the sharpness of his eye that was never at hand when learning his letters.

“I-I, well,” Hans bites the inside of his cheek briefly, returning his gaze to the fire. “I…I tried not to be inside when I could help it, but…” But so often he’d had no choice. Either the foremen would herd him within, or he’d not been able to stand even the barest thought of winter winds continuing to flay his already torn flesh. "It was necessary," he manages, a blasé shrug offered, as if mention of that time doesn't make him want to wretch and shudder. "I am not so sturdy as some." A knowledge long in the learning, his frailty and ineptitude reflected permanently in the loss of his flesh.

In the never ending tremble of his hands.

The fire crackles in continued hunger and Murphy pushes to his feet, a mountain in his own right. One that Hans never had the nerve, nor lately the looks, to climb. "Sturdy enough," he rumbles, as if his pitiful and impossibly sweet attempt at comfort can overturn what Hans knows to be fact.

He's gone before a correction can even be attempted, broad shoulders melting into the darkness in what might be so very innervating a way were Hans not familiar with the incredibly gentle giant that is Murphy Stabbington.

-

They walk until the skies are less forever grey, ground less firm beneath their feet. Less frozen, even. Snow still abounds, though it is less often so brilliantly white, falling with so much less constancy than it did miles before.

Everything is less, measured only by lack. Nights are not so inescapably cold, the land is no more an endless dirge of white and grey. Food lessens as well unfortunately, though hardly had they feasted while moving away from the tundra. Still, those meagre scraps of nourishment had been a salvation, even if one that Hans had been forced to consume so carefully. Necessary, when too large a piece would have torn his loosened teeth free, forever lost due to an ill-thought chew.

That he has lost only one of his back teeth is almost astonishing, though his fortune is more due to his lack of sustenance on the tundra than an absence of scurvy. Even that one had been the result of another convict's violence, a fist making sudden contact with his jaw before hands had-.

It…it’s so grand to be fed, even if so barely. Hans hasn't had to beg or abase himself for a single scrap, each piece given with little more than a grunt from Murphy. It's rare Hans doesn't rip off half of that offered before returning the rest, but for those few minutes there is nothing more pleasing than each fiber on his tongue. Even now he grazes slowly on a shard, watching the horizon as the Stabbingtons fill their glass bottles from a near frigid stream. The spices affixed give his mind leave to wander, to pretend that he is at a bazaar down on the southern coasts, sampling the vendor’s wares as if someone with coin enough to make a purchase.

Hah! So grand a thought. Humorous even, to imagine himself again so eminent, silver weighing down his pocket and a bronze bracelet affixed to his wrist. His clothes would be whole, made to last, the seams sturdy and unbroken. His feet would know no chill, and never more would his hair be so mottled with the remnants of ash and dust. Murphy would be near of course, his boots made of sleek leather and so finely crafted a steel at his waist. The grizzled mass of hair hanging from his chin would be unnecessary, jaw as strong and clean as it was when Hans first knew him.

...Good lord.

How amazingly pathetic.

Hans doesn’t even _know_ himself anymore. He’s never had such tame desires. Never thought on the future and been less than a king, than a man of influence, of power and mastery.

This…this is just one more thing the tundra has taken. His health, his flesh, and now even his dreams.

He is so _hollow_. Is a body that wasn’t intelligent enough to quit, skin stretched across bone and blood for no purpose. Hans is nothing, his existence so-, so unnecessary. There’s no reason for him to draw breath, nothing that he affects or gives any purpose.

A waste of air, of space, as surplus as the day he was born.

Truth that Hans cannot deny. No rebuttals rise from the murk of his thoughts as they used to, no assurance of worth burning forth from his blood. Here he could be ended, smote where he stands, and the world would not warble in the slightest. Even the one creature who looks at him without irritation or scorn would know ease at his absence, when Hans is only a mouth to feed and a body to keep warm.

Murphy might even be pleased. Would be, no doubt. He is only even allowing Hans along now because of ill feeling of some sort, a guilt that is near incomprehensible. Hans can see it in the lessening of those mammoth shoulders the few times they converse, and how so rarely their eyes meet. Surely he would be so much less burdened a creature were Hans not here to leech his warmth and consume his nourishment.

He exists on nothing but Murphy's misplaced generosity, and Hans has not even a sliver of the mettle necessary to remove himself, permanently or otherwise.

If they were still in the mountains, perhaps. A quick fling of his body, a stumbled step on those high passes, and Hans would no more exist. Would be incapable of allowing his selfish nature to infringe upon a man more dear than Hans has ever known.

But there are no ledges here high enough to do the job, and he hasn't even the privacy to contemplate such any longer. The tread of boots sound from the dark shadows that lead down towards the river. A moment and Hans can see movement, a vague outline of broad shoulders and powerful arms.

The shadows fall away and it is not the Stabbington he prefers. Not one that Hans will greet, eyes averted in sickening recollection of his behavior on the tundra, gaze so immediately low when chancing upon the presence of those less wane and pathetic than himself.

Immediately an unease clenches his gut when Seamus doesn't pass him by, steps slowing, feet pausing before where Hans has moved to the side. It is impossible to ignore the size of him without Murphy present, this man's girth so aggressive despite how similar the two are.

Though it's been long since Murphy's eye has held the same coldness Seamus' do. Time out of mind since hands of that contour and size have inspired the beginning ebbs of dread.

To stand there silently is beyond Hans' present ability, words thrust forth more by nervous tension than any claims to bravery. "May I-."

“Best be making yourself worth that meat, Red.” Lord, but that voice is _deep_ , every syllable chiseled from the root of the very mountains they’d crossed. More stated fact than threat, intimidation a game this man seems beyond proficient in. It is not possible that Seamus is unaware of how his loom and stature cause such anxiety, enjoyment no doubt known from that knowledge. Hans cannot even recall the taste of the jerky at present, fright prickling up the back of his shins, beyond his knees, curling so tight in his chest that words are not even something he has the presence of mind to again attempt.

He’s not fool enough to think he appears anything more than some waifish vagabond, some pitiful parasite on the verge of putting his forehead to the cold ground and begging for mercy.

Seamus’ hand snaps out like a viper before Hans can decide if he should, the width of that palm so immediately suffocating. To move his lungs is impossible, to even _think_ so beyond Hans at present. His feet are almost off the ground, Seamus’ fist so tight, his dominion sudden and terrible, the warmth of his breath a freshly spawned _terror_. "Don't be foolish enough to take advantage of my kin, and not make it worth his goddamn while." Hans cannot take a breath, his heels off the ground, hands hanging from this villain’s wrist in desperate _appeal_ -.

The fingers release and Hans is incapable of managing his feet, ankle twisting to the side as he falls.  He aches there on his hands and knees, mouth open, panting, blood rushing in his ears.

Can barely hear the retreating tread of Seamus’ boots past his own gasps, fingers curling against the ground in pale recollection of the same vigor with which he used to grasp the hilt of a sword.

Lord, how he _burns_. Shame stabs sharp and swift in his blood, despise climbs his chest like fire, so immediate a detest as he has never known but for that naive excuse of a princess. Hatred is nothing foreign to Hans, the one standard of his existence, but now it rushes through him in so _enveloping_ a way. His fisted hands tremble on the ground, humiliation heating his face and making tight his chest. He’s rarely felt so vile, so worthless and abhorrent.

He’s never hated like he hates that hulking _cur._

-

Seamus is gone again, his absence almost easing.

Murphy hates to think that, but his brother's got some frustration in him, though nothing he's yet said aloud. Not much Murphy can do to make anything better when he's not got even a little of a clue about what's riling him. Not so rare, Seamus decently capable of sorting himself out, but certainly makes living with him a bit tense in the meanwhile.

Hell, he’s probably getting himself a whore instead of looking for lodging, not that Murphy will make any murmur about the loss of coin. Not if it eases his brother’s ire and keeps him from trying to make Hans a bargain.

Murphy’s honestly not sure what he’d do if that happened, if he woke up in the midst of night and found them warming each other.

Not a thought he’s got much interest in pursuing, Hans’ voice the grandest distraction there ever was, "What are we doing?”

A glance doesn’t give tell of what sort of mood he’s in, his eyes usually so sharp these days. Stubble has gotten longer on him again, and without seeing the pale flesh of his jaw it’s difficult to know if Hans’ got any irritation brewing.  “Waiting.”

Hans looks over at him, eyes no less intense, “Waiting for what, precisely? Other than the return of your brother.”

That…that’s a question Murphy doesn’t quite have the answer to at present. He knows where they’re supposed to be headed, Seamus’ end game clear enough from the letters he sent, but that’s about it. Not where the baron’s at, or even what sort of work Seamus has promised them for. Not really so strange, Murphy was hardly ever interested enough in the plan to really care of the specifics until it was time to act. The way it used to be, at least. Before that mess in Corona.

Before the following mess in Chesterfield, one Murphy had no hand in making.

Was a mistake to take a moment to think, Hans pushing to his feet with an annoyed exhale. He doesn’t even pace, the energy taken to stand apparently enough to ease what aggravation is in him. Just crosses his arms before the fire and glares at the flames as if they’ve wronged him. “...I should not be here.”

Neither should Murphy, but he’s not set to complain about it. “Don’t matter.”

“It does matter!” Hans snaps, and it’s the first time Murphy’s seen life in his face since before Mihailovitch’s reign, the same sort of insistence that used to color his words and voice when he got lecturing on political nonsense. His hands fist inside the blanket, the exterior of the fabric drawn taught around his knuckles, a fierce wideness to his eyes, "I-, I am a burden to you. A leech. A worthless drain on yourself, on your resources, on-, on everything!" Murphy can't get a single word in edgewise, can barely even try when he's so thrown. So beyond even beginning to understand where Hans got the idea that he's so useless and terrible. “That I even exist is a _mistake_ , a state I could not even mange without huddling in your shadow as if some pathetic cretin!”

“But you’re not,” Murphy tries to insist, but Hans doesn’t seem to hear. That or the words are counted as a lie, as empty flattery, even though that’s the furthest thing from the truth. “Hans-.”

But he turns away, the edge of his blanket flaring like a cape. “I will not stand for your false comfort!” He really believes that, nothing but thorns and bitterness in his bearing, in the snarled lines crinkling his nose when he whips back around. “I shouldn’t allow any of this, should not just-, just exist here uselessly on your goodwill, not when I could at least be dinner for some forest beast!”

What is Murphy even supposed to say? What can he? Doesn’t even get what Hans is so upset about, barely ever did, and there’s not a single thing Murphy can even do to make him less riled. "Would…rather you didn't."

Should’ve just stayed quiet. Hans has such a tightness to his face now, spring sea eyes so fierce and harsh, like maybe this is the moment they splinter. Everything between them about to again be shorn, ripped apart as easily as they were months ago, and Murphy just _can’t_ be here. Has to go, just pushes to his feet and steps off towards the tree line like he's taking a piss instead of retreating from a conversation he doesn't even know how to have.

-

Seamus isn't back when Murphy returns, and Hans is curled up a stride from the fire, a slack sort of curl to his hands that spells slumber.

Uneasy slumber, from the vague furrows that cast a shadow across his brow. They smooth out when Murphy settles near his head and strokes a palm down the sharp slope of his shoulder, but Murphy's not so daft as to count that as meaning anything he'd like it to.

-

Pretty clear that they can’t do much more of this.

Almost seems like they’re walking just to stretch their legs, not that Murphy understands why. They barely keep to the road, crossing a burnt field one day and wading across brooks the rest, any village they happen upon approached only at sunset. Murphy usually doesn’t walk with his brother to them, can't when he’s not entirely sure if there’s any rewards out for getting one or more of them trussed up. Most times he’d rather sit with Hans anyway, even if they don’t manage more than a few words between them. Been no different since the tundra, Hans’ recent temper besides, and maybe that’s just how it’s to be until Murphy’s out of reasons convincing enough to make him stay.

He dreads that day, would like a little something to have ready for it. Some proof that there’s an endgame to this wandering, a place where Murphy can keep Hans as warm and fed as he did for those long months in their pitiful shack. Better fed, even, dressed in something other than rags and ash, never forced to whatever desperation made him stain the copper shine of his hair.

There’s some length to the strands again, less of the greyness present, not that Murphy hardly gets to see them. Hans has usually got the blanket and scarf twisted around himself decent enough that only the pallor of his face can be seen, freckles so dark when Murphy watches him in moonlight.

Bit depressing to realize he's not touched that red richness in so long.

Might never again either, but that doesn't stop Murphy from stepping towards where his brother lounges before an evening fire, intent on getting something useful out of him.

There's not much notice taken of his approach, Seamus glaring down into the cloth sack that holds the few coins that he thought to bring north. Finally glances up when he notes Murphy’s shadow, flames flashing in the corner of his eyes, “Need something?”

Bit abrupt, but that how things have always been between them. To the point, and quick about it. There's not much he needs though, surviving on little a skill he had long before the tundra. Murphy's learned he can survive on even less than he thought beforehand, but that doesn't mean he's not got a list of wants longer than his arm.

Tired of having nothing to defend himself with for one. They haven’t chanced upon much trouble, no wanted signs that he’s yet seen, but that doesn’t stop them getting jumped whenever they manage to catch the eye of whatever two-bit bandits that populate these parts. Murphy’s decent with his fists, pleased enough when Hans will stay back out of the ruckus before the fools cut and run, but Murphy’d be hell of a lot more confident if he had a blade. Even something as pitted and badly crafted as the scrap Seamus has got clasped to his belt.

But there’s not much cause for that sorta complaint, so Murphy takes a seat beside his brother and leans back from the fire’s heat, “Just a word.”

Seamus' eyes get a bit sharper, his eyebrow cocked, “What sorta word?”

"Wouldn't mind a direction." There's enough chuckle in his voice to undercut the frustration that's been growing since they left the mountains. "Not much liking this walking blind." He just isn't sure why his brother won't at least give him the baron's goddamn name. Seamus can't even blame it on there being other ears around, Hans scaling a chestnut tree a dozen strides away. Close enough that Murphy has a decent shot of getting close enough to catch should he start to fall, but still far enough to remain unawares with as low as Murphy and his brother tend to talk.

Not that a catch will likely be necessary with how easy Hans had twisted himself up into those branches. More squirrel than man he'd seemed as he conquered the sway of the wind. Evidence enough that there's some seaman in him, not that Murphy knows why.

Another story untold. One he might never even hear if Hans leaves, and that's just not a thought Murphy can stand at present.

Not that his brother seems much inclinced to help lessen his stress. Seamus is evidently in a mood, surly and on the edge of scornful as he turns back to his purse, "Never cared before."

"Maybe I should’ve,” Murphy returns, more grumble in his voice than there likely oughta be if he’s trying to get something out of his brother. Not that it should be so difficult. “Maybe a few questions would’ve stopped us from throwing in with that floppy haired prick.”

Seamus’ lip lifts the same as it ever does when Rider is mentioned, “Faithless bastard.” More of a snarl in his face than there was a moment prior, but Murphy’s fine with that so long as he’s not the cause of it. “You believe Corona knighted him?”

Course they did. Can’t have some nameless cutthroat taking a princess’ hand. Had to do something to attach some worth to Rider, make him more palatable for the court. Isn’t all that surprising Seamus is irked by it, not when every fool game they tended to play as lads had him galloping around on a broom handle horse with a broken axe-handle for a sword. “Lot of good that’ll do them,” Murphy comments, more to humor his brother than really caring about the windfall of fortune the bastard’s had. “Would do me some good to know what we’re about.”

He’s honestly not even sure what Seamus has been getting up to for the last years, or why he wouldn’t of brought more coin with him coming north. Thought might be some manner ungrateful, but Murphy’s more’n a little disappointed at what Seamus had scrounged together to get them across the mountains. Couple handfuls of dried meat, few bottles of liquor. No bread, no cheese, nothing that would really stick to their ribs and make the struggle less than it had been. Nothing by way of gear beyond a hooded coat, the fabric old and thin. Had barely made a difference when Murphy’d gotten it on, beyond keeping a bit of the gale from going down the back of his neck.

Sure, they’d survived the trek, even Hans, waifish as he is, but it shouldn’t have been such a hardship. Should’ve had something beyond logs stocked at that shack. Some jugs of water, a bag of grain, some goddamn blankets. The only one they’ve got is still the mangled thing Murphy smuggled off the tundra.  Not that it does them all much good when it's the only substantial bit of fabric Hans has to keep himself even a little bit warm.

Murphy wouldn't take it from him for the world, and he's so aggravated there's not a thing else to offer him. Not even sure when there will be, and that’s really all he wants right now. Something substantial, proof that there’s nothing Hans even need think on since Murphy’s got everything sorted.

There’s just something…. good, something _right_ about being able to take care of another creature like that, laboring for more than just his own health. And Hans had been taken care of like none other on those frozen plains. Kept warm. Kept fed and clothed and _safe_ , all because Murphy’d been able to make it so. Wants to do that again, near desperate for it. To keep being of enough use that Hans’ll stay, that he’ll simmer and come down from whatever anger is in him.

Nothing more in the world that Murphy has wanted like he wants that, and Seamus’ silence just isn’t something he’s set to let slide.

“Tell me about this baron.” About as plain as Murphy can make it, and he’s not even bothering to keep his irritation hid. No reason to, when his brother’s being so obstinate over this for no goddamn reason. “Tired of this nonsense.”

Seamus doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like that at all, eyes all narrow when he glances over again, "What'd'you even need to know for?" He’s so defensive, like Murphy wanting some idea of what they’re doing is some sorta insult. “You in a hurry to be someplace else? Your whore holding out-.”

“What’re we _doing_ , Seamus?” Murphy rarely snaps at his brother, and never unless he needs to be heard over some ruckus, but he’s not got the _patience_ for this. Maybe he doesn't ask for specifics often, and maybe those few times he did the answers didn’t mean much, but there's no cause for this goddamn runaround! None! Not when Murphy’s given as much of himself as he possibly could to keep his brother out of that frozen hellhole of a-.

"Didn't work out."

And-, and that’s not something he’d been set to hear. Murphy's not exactly sure he even heard right until he notes how Seamus tips his head down, enough attention paid to his purse that some might think he forgot how to count. "...What'd'you mean?"

"The hell else do I mean," his brother mutters, surly and cross. Clear enough tell of his embarrassment, of whatever festering shame he's got inside. "Got bungled."

He says it so _easy._ So simple, as if the promise that kept Murphy going for those five frigid years is _nothing._

"How did it get bungled?" Murphy barely manages, a chill working up his spine, a sort of numb lurch in his blood.

A sure thing, those letters had claimed. Set and ready, coin and means assured. No more drifting, Seamus’d wrote. No more wondering how long their coin would last, no debating on buying dinner or replacing a chipped sword. No looking over their shoulder for months following a theft as they struck out for different parts, always on the move. No more being on the run, or never being able to set down any roots or take up a true craft. Something more worthwhile and honest than the theft and mercenary work that had colored all their lives.

A sound, a brief rush of air, and Murphy whips his head around even as the rest of him grows all tight. He watches as Hans drops down with some rare accomplishment in his face, the sort of smile that Murphy's sure is honest just from how small it is.

“Don’t matter,” Seamus mutters beside him, but Murphy can’t turn. Doesn’t have it in him to look away from the slip of a creature coming near, the only constant thing in his life. Always so sharp, so _useful,_ even now, when Murphy doesn’t have a place for him to go. Doesn’t even have a plan, not even an idea of what they’re supposed to do now, but Hans is still pushing though. He doesn't say a thing as he walks, just hefts the chestnuts higher in his grasp, scarf made into enough of a net to keep them from tumbling.

He’s so _smart,_ so goddamn intelligent, and Murphy can’t even hardly _breathe_ knowing Hans isn’t even any better off than he was on the tundra. Not now, when every confidence Murphy had of there being an end to this cold and hunger just withered like a plucked flower in the heat of summer.

There’s a hand on him, a touch he almost jerks from, and Seamus has his shoulder in a tight grasp when Murphy looks. “It don’t _matter_ ,” he insists, as if his words can even hold weight anymore. Eyes are all intense, nearly bright, and Murphy’s not sure if his brother has ever looked at him like that, on the edge of wild and desperate. “I-, I’ve got this figured out, right? Got a plan, and we’re still all set.”

“Set?” Murphy almost laughs. Might, if his throat wasn’t so tight, if the whole of his chest wasn’t clenched so sick and sour. “How’re we _set?_ ”

Seamus just smiles at him, teeth flashing like this isn’t even a thing to worry about. As if Murphy is getting himself riled for no good reason. “It’ll work out,” he promises, confidence that can’t possibly be true in his face, in the strength of his grip. “You know I ain't steered you wrong yet." His grin barely lasts the length of his words.

Maybe he realizes how wrong he is.


	7. Chapter 7

Nothing of worth in the bastard’s pockets. Some dirty tobacco that Murphy can’t even chew, a couple pebbles with sigils carved in them, likely some foolish home brewed ward against misfortune. “Didn't do you any good today,” Murphy mutters crossly, taking claim of them if only because they might fetch a few coins next time they come across a town for Seamus to venture into. He doesn’t even bother with the scarp of a blade the woman came at him with, the point long broken and the base of the tang too rusted to trust. None of those that had ambushed with her had managed to swing anything better at them, which might be why three of their number have bled out into the ground instead of his brother or Hans.

That said, Murphy’s still not entirely certain how Seamus managed to get himself into such a bad spot. There’s nothing he can see of the wound when he glances back over his shoulder to where Hans is pretending to be a nurse. Seamus is still sat on the ground with his shirt off,  Hans crouched behind him. There’s a binding of cloth hooked around his chest and shoulder, likely stolen from Hans’ blanket. Can’t really see if it’s stained through, so Murphy turns back to his task and pushes to his feet, a brief moment spent dragging the woman’s corpse to the ditch.

She lands amidst the rest of her brethren, thick lips parted, hair a tangled nest. Not so different from those below her. There’s something desperate to their dress, to the state of what gear they can claim. Poverty is spelt in the crooked extent of the seams, in the rotten green sheen climbing what leather they have between them. Reminds Murphy of the clansmen, none on the tundra quiet so filthy.

Maybe these fools are of the same ilk. Takes a certain sort of folk to be nasty enough that mold and worse can take root on leather and cloth. A shame. Could’ve put their footwear to use otherwise, Hans’ blasted sandals about used up.

Not something to risk though, when this whole lot is likely carrying as much sickness as a heifer three days dead.

No reason to waste more thought or energy on the disappointment, Murphy spitting to clear his mouth of blood before turning back. Hans is standing when he does, looks as whole and unbothered as he forever should. Makes Murphy's scowl lessen a bit, not that there's anyone to see.

Is a moment later, Hans turning his direction. Meets his eye for a moment but doesn't make a comment, the slow sweep of his gaze warming Murphy despite his silence. A warmth that even lasts the sight of Hans' bloodied hands, though there's only so much as to stain his fingers and palm. Clear enough evidence that what wound Seamus’d managed didn't go so deep that a tied cloth couldn't stem it.  “Done?”

He’s quiet still, a beckon in his face that Murphy just doesn't know how to ignore.

Seamus hasn't yet climbed to his feet, the reason why made obvious in a moment. He's breathing shallow, his shoulders an unnatural line, the bare muscle of his back reddened, the dark hues of one hell of a bruise sure to set in by evening. Though that's hardly so much trouble as a popped shoulder.

It's clear enough that Hans doesn't have the weight to do the job right, or might not even know how. He doesn't argue when Murphy motions him away, his shaking hands immediately hidden away in what’s left of the blanket.

Murphy's not got the energy to be annoyed by that at present, and hardly has the want to even bother dealing with his brother. They’ve barely said a word to each other in nearly a fortnight, and Murphy's not even sure who’s at fault. Seamus can't look him in the eye, hasn't since being caught out as a worthless piece of-.

That’s harsh. Maybe harsher than necessary, but Murphy can't manage to muster up much of a care. Just busies himself with getting his brother stood and then moving on to his lame side. Haven't done this is a while, Seamus not nearly so broad to reach around when last he had, but it's not hard to remember how this goes. Fingers tight together, back straight, a moment while he tries to get between his brother’s breaths, and then Murphy jerks him close with all the strength the tundra left him.

-

They’ve no more jerky, nor even any chestnuts. Water is the only resource of any reliability, brooks and rivers so constant in this land. Not that Hans has any idea of where he is, or even of what country they trapse across.

Unnecessary thoughts spawned by a restless mind. They move so slowly now, a few hours in the morning and a few more at night. Murphy does not even wait for his brother to express any discomfort before he turns off the road, the expectation that he be followed so incredibly clear. They’ve managed a rare fortune tonight, rest taken in the abandoned shack of some huntsman. The roof is poorly thatched, the floor nothing but packed dirt, but it is still an abode better than any Hans has had in recent months. Even the heavy grey clouds that were threatening all evening have moved away to the south, the humidity left making the air warmer than it actually is.

Not so warm as to scorn the fire’s heat, but Hans does not have to be so dreadfully close to where Seamus has sprawled.

Seamus is already asleep actually, his chest lifting in a silent ease. His damaged shoulder is closest to the fire, the warmth maybe bringing some relief to the bruised flesh.

Hans has not seen the injury since the day it occurred, but there is no possibility that Seamus’ skin is anything but a mottled wash of dark hue and ache. They would do well to find him a surgeon or some medicineman, but Murphy had only scoffed the one time Hans proposed so evidently foolish an idea. The same sort of stubbornness showcased months ago in their shack, not even a sliver of consideration given to a sickness that might have spelled his death.

Apparently his brother is of a similar enough temperament that his opinion need not even be sought, lest some conversation happens the few times Hans steps away to wash himself in a river.

Unlikely though. Surely some comment or scorn would have been given upon his return, but Seamus has been largely silent for so long now. Emulating the quiet reserve of his brother, but Hans doesn't feel the better for it. The air is so heavy, even awkward, and there is little else that Hans cannot stand like he does words and sentiment unspoken.

Humorous, perhaps, concealment of his own true desires a long held inclination.

-

Sunrise, sunset, and all the hours in between.

Wasted hours, if Murphy’s in the mood to be blunt about it. Hours that could’ve been spent earning a living if he’d been back north. A meager living, less than he was capable of and more hassle than the compensation was worth, but he hadn’t been this hungry, not even this wet. A storm’s been hassling them for more than an hour now, and his skin itches where the wetness tracks down from his hair, nearly as bad as the irritation spawned by his patch.

Had been difficult getting back used to having it on all goddamn day, though Murphy's not sure why he even bothers. Only does it for his brother’s benefit, not that Seamus deserves that much courtesy. Doesn’t deserve a blasted thing, nothing in him but greed and the sort of foolishness that landed them in Corona’s dungeon.

Maybe this is why Murphy’s not quite cut out for being in charge. He’s got more grudges than teeth, he’s petty as a whiskered widow, he doesn’t know how to push aside everything rankling inside him, to just ignore what’s been done to him, what he’s been made to suffer, when not a bit of it was made up for.

Not a way of thinking Murphy much likes, but he's been in a rut of frustration and bitterness for as long as his kin was caught out at being a liar. It’s even a relief to send him off to scout the town a mile off. He might ache when he gets there, but Murphy doesn’t feel bad. Not when he’s got to muck around in this dank cavern and find something dry enough to burn.

Seamus better have something to show for himself when he returns.

Murphy’s not sure he can stand to look at him anymore, to even have him near, if he doesn’t prove some manner useful. A scrap of bread, some merchant’s purse, anything to ease their situation even a _little._

Can’t exist on little forever though. Not even for much longer. Hans is sturdy enough to have weathered it this far, but he can’t have anything left to him. Slim as he is, getting gaunter everyday beneath the regrowing spread of stubble. There’s not much fish to be had, the season not right, and Murphy’s not even got the supplies to cobble together a snare. Sure they roasted some game between them a week ago, but that wasn’t more than chance. Couldn’t exactly pass up the opportunity when the hare had stumbled out from the underbrush, a broken arrow shaft in its flank.

Wasn’t enough, and won’t be. They can’t keep on like this, piecemeal in their meals, in their clothes. In their coin and direction.

They can’t, but Murphy’s got no idea of what else to do.

Maybe Hans would. Smartest creature Murphy’s ever known in his life, but the night’s too far on to bother him. Too far on to even be thinking about all this, but it’s not like he’s got a shift in the morning. He’s got nothing to plan on, nothing to do.

Frustration is hard to stave off these days, though Murphy doesn’t mean to sigh. Least not so loud, Hans twitching where he’s laid out before the fire.  He stretches, his thin wrists flexing in the meager light, something low and tired escaping his throat. Bends a knee back towards his chest then, pale skin seen through the taunt tears of his leggings. Isn’t quite a moment to appreciate it, a frown taking Murphy’s lips when he notices trembling hands reach for the clasps of those awful sandals.

“Oi,” he murmurs, loud enough to catch Hans’ ears, "Keep ‘em on."

Hans maybe isn't awake enough to take his meaning, a brow lifted as he hums back in question. He almost looks soft this way, the shadows sweeping down from his lashes, fire light gleaming on his damp hair almost the same as a lantern used to.

“Boots on when you sleep,” Murphy grunts, even though that scrapped footwear hasn't been boots for more than a year. “Never know when we’ll hafta cut and run.”

Those sharp eyes roll, amusement in the brief curve of Hans' smile, "I've never known you to be so ridiculously cautious." He’s maybe just playing, but Murphy isn’t quite in the sort of mood where he can tell. Hasn’t been in a while. “Not even on the tundra.”

"Least I knew what was out there," Murphy mutters, more surly in tone than he actually feels. "No one decent, but no one likely to make a run at us." Not after he'd made it clear enough that he wasn't shy about getting bloody, the ache of his body worth the reputation that'd kept his shack and his-, that kept his shack and Hans decently safe. "Can't say the same out here."

Hans yawns and stretches against the ground, his fingers like birch twigs. "You are ridiculous," he sighs, a sleepy sort of mutter. Soft and tired. "The most-," another yawn as he turns on his side, near enough that his forehead is against the outside of Murphy's thigh, "-ridiculous man in the world."

Hard not to smile, Hans' drowsy nonsense something Murphy's not known in so very long. "...Thinking you might have me beat," he murmurs back some moments later, but Hans must be asleep.

Has to be, to not pull away when a heavy hand passes over his dark copper hair.

-

Dry by morning, not that his mood is much better. Doesn’t improve when Seamus appears from the east, his stride lazy and long. Murphy would mutter his annoyance but there’s no one around to listen. Hans left an hour ago to poke around in the underbrush for mulberries, not that he’ll find any ripe ones. More likely to get himself bit by a goddamn snake, but Murphy kept that to himself as well.  Maybe shouldn’t let Hans waste his time like that, but Murphy’s not so sure what to say to him anymore. Least not when he’s wide awake and so convinced of his own uselessness.

Something Murphy just doesn’t know how to combat, proven weeks ago when retreat was the only thing he could even think of. Probably only served to convince Hans the more of his own fool thoughts. Could’ve taken the time to prove otherwise to him if Murphy’d been capable of forcing himself to just _think._ Feels like he’s getting backed into a corner whenever Hans is like that though. Angry or sad, or whatever it is that gets him so riled. Was the same way on the tundra, rare as Hans’ discontent was. He’d get silent and sullen on occasion, but hardly ever worse than that.

Rarely so riled as he was when he lost his toe.

Murphy almost starts to smile thinking on how nettled he’d been. How quietly sharp. Almost like Hans is now, if he weren’t so thin. Or so damn far from healthy. Bruises too easy now. Moves like every joint is aching. Even if he could match Murphy’s stride, he still wouldn’t keep up if they were moving at a proper pace.

Foolish to even think on all this when there’s nothing Murphy can do about it. Still  frustrating.  Enough for his jaw to hurt from how hard he’s clenching it. Can’t quite quit once Seamus is close, his brother just as aggravating. “Well?”

If Seamus is bothered by the snap he doesn’t show it, something familiar about how pleased he looks with himself,  "Got us a lead."

Been nearly six years since Murphy's heard those words. Longer even since he heard them and actually knew any profit in the end.  "...What sort?" Maybe a foolish question after all the bullshit Seamus has drug them through. More than foolish, but Murphy's not got much better to do at present than give an ear to whatever idiot scheme his brother's hatching.

Seamus doesn't even look like he's paying any mind to the disinterest in Murphy's tone, no less satisfaction in his swagger. "Heard some bishop got defrocked a few months back. They wound up putting her head on a block and took her estate. Whole place got cleared of anything valuable-."

"The hell do I care if it's all gone?" Surly and abrupt, but Murphy's not sure how else to be these days.

"Just shup your trap and listen," Seamus snaps, "There's three wagons full of chests coming through Eainshire, all stuffed with jewels and gold and any goddamn thing that'll fetch coin.  Hear they're hiring on some more guards there. We get involved, maybe relieve them of enough of that gold to set ourselves up for a bit."

Where the hell did Seamus even hear about this? Sounds as likely as a baron willing to take on two thieves."The hell is this we? I'm-."

"Not a wanted man on this side of the world." Seamus' teeth flash in quick cheer, as if Murphy could be convinced to know the same humor in the situation that's kept him sleeping on rocks and dirt since they left the mountains. "Haven't gotten hasselled by anyone looking for you since we crossed the swamplands."

That-, that's actually pretty nice to hear. Not that they've the funds to start sleeping in any inns, but being able to step foot in the towns they find opens up a lot more opportunities than keeping to the outskirts. Fell a couple trees, raise a few barns, whatever quick work available that would get some coin in his hand. More likelihood of that improving their situation than this nonsense his brother is spouting.

"Doesn't mean much," Murphy finally mutters, crossing his arms as he leans back against the uneven rock of the cavern's entrance. "They ain't likely to sign on some strangers that just happen to know what sort of cargo they're carrying. Don't even have ourselves anyone to vouch for us, and no one that would looking like this."

"Then we'll get some better clothes," Seamus assures, like it's as easy done as said. "Some better clothes, some proper steel, and we'll figure out a way to get hired. Might have to make ourselves the only ones available, but that ain't hard." He knocks Murphy's shoulder with the flat of his palm, still grinning. "Not for you and me."

Seamus might be on the road to healing up decent, but that doesn't mean they need to jump right back into trouble. Just because Murphy's mug isn't scribbled this far south doesn't give them any good reason to go picking fights on the off chance of actually getting taken on.

Though with the sort of rut they're in, there's not much option at hand but to try.

"Eainshire then," Murphy grumbles, still so far from liking even a little of this scheme. "Figure it all out on the way."

"What's there to figure out?" Seamus crows, so goddamn pleased with himself as he grips Murphy's shoulder. "It's a-."

"Don't you _dare_ call it a sure thing until the gold is in my hand."

If Seamus has something to say to that he's smart enough to keep it to himself.

-

The breeze isn't too brisk, sun full and hot, everything about summer that Murphy prefers. Isn't quite that late in the year yet, but it's still a fine day. One warm enough that stripping most of their layers and relaxing while Hans roughs them against rocks in a quiet stream is something they can actually take advantage of.

Murphy takes the time to relax at least, Seamus hiking deeper into the woods in search of game. Didn't seem bothered to be in nothing but his shorts, no matter how Hans had flushed and scowled. It’s still a strange thing to see him modest on behalf of another, as strange and amusing as it’d been in their shack all those months ago. He's not quite so red as Murphy thinks he remembers, but that's likely only because Hans is getting run so ragged.

Not that he's complained, as silent about his discomforts now as he'd been up north. Doesn't mean Murphy hasn't noticed though, or that he's quit thinking on anything he could do to make the trek easier. Would help if Hans actually did complain about what's giving him trouble, but that's not been his way for as long as Murphy's known him. More likely to harp on himself then mutter about the incline of the road or the morning chill.

Murphy's still got no idea what to say if Hans gets so worked up again, but he's distracted from that persistent worry when he hears his name. "Hmm?"

Hans doesn't answer right away, a moment taken to catch his breath after he pulls a swathe of sodden fabric from the river. Likely his blanket from the color. "I understand that you intend to get work."

No reason for Hans to sound as if Murphy taking a job is so unlikely. "For a bit."

Another moment and his stockings are laid out to dry, threadbare but rinsed of sweat and grit. "You and your brother?"

"Aye." Murphy stretches back on the grass, something about sunshine and the babble of the river making him think on a nap. "No reason for him not to work." His shoulder near back to rights, not even a bruise in sight, isn't a single reason for him not to do something more worthwhile than sweet talking whores. Not that Murphy's seen him, no towns passed since they decided on Eainshire, but he's familiar enough with his brother's swagger when returning to know when he's gotten his prick some attention.

About time they got back to work, actually. Get some decent coin, fill their stomachs for the first time in months, get Hans something substantial on his feet. Maybe they could even squirrel enough away to get some good gear and a few horses. Wouldn't be the hardest thing to get signed on with some mercenaries at that point, even pledge to a guild.

They'd have more than enough work then, and even enough coin coming in to get a decent place in some city. Wouldn't be no one that'd bother Hans while Murphy was working, survival not so difficult to come by. He could have his books and decent clothes and enough food to forever erase the gaunt shadows of his face. He'd never be cold again, would wear fur in winter and have his pick of all those exotic friuts that vendors would get in every spring. Hans would want for absolutely nothing.

He'd even be able to find himself some decent company.

Not exactly something Murphy’s so keen to think on, his throat cleared before he turns his neck enough that he can watch Hans work, “Suppose you overheard?”

“Might’ve,” Hans returns, so quiet. Almost demure. Makes him seem frailer than Murphy knows he is, the pale knobs of his spine making the impression worse.

“Not sure on it myself,” Murphy mutters, taking his time looking over Hans’ bare shoulders. Stomach starts to turn when he sweeps down and stares too long at where the back of his ribs cast shadow. “Guess there’s still the pay, even if we can't manage to steal any of it."

Murphy would almost rather not even make the attempt. Sure, if a few coins fell out of a chest he wouldn’t be above kicking them over for his brother to grab up, but what if that was the extent of it? What if this was just a job, just honest labor, enough to keep them from starving and sleeping outdoors? That’s honestly all Murphy wants out of life right now. Less than what his brother promised for five goddamn years, but better than what they have now. Better than Hans has, and that’s really all the motivation needed.

-

The sun is nearly overhead, though the winds are brisk enough that Hans keeps the sides of the blanket tucked against him. Usually he would move closer to Murphy, taking momentary shelter before his bulk, but Hans isn't so sure the attempt would be humored by either Stabbington at present. Not when they are both so cross, snapping at each other like starving hounds.

“Nothing to it,” Seamus insists again, gesturing towards the first center of civilization that Hans has been near in over a year. More than that likely, if Hans were in a foul enough mood to actually contemplate the arithmetic. “In and out. All the tips get kept in the barkeep’s purse till closing. Be enough in there to get out of these rags. Even enough for some decent blades if'n we can't find a blacksmith to rob."

Murphy’s lip lifts, derision in the twist of his scar, “Just going to walk in there and expect-.”

“I _expect_ there won’t be any trouble,” Seamus barks, the girth of his biceps more evident when his arms cross. "I'll get her fucking purse, knock her bloody if she tries to make a scene-."

"Course there's going to be a scene," Murphy snaps, lips back in a snarl. "Can't just barge into that popular of a place and expect that there won't be some guard, or enough drunk bastards willing to take up a blade just for the hell of it. Be better off just making straight for the market and cutting a few purses there-."

“And get barely enough coin to patch a shirt,” Seamus sneers, gesturing down at both their attire, “let alone replace all this-."

"Something wrong with your boots?" Murphy demands, the chords of his throat growing visible, irritation reddening the bridge of his nose, "Your pants got holes? Don't need it all replaced, only a fresh shirt. Maybe a coat, just enough to make us look less like tramps."

"These aren't folks that'll be fooled by a goddamn _shirt_ ," Seamus hisses, leaning forward as if he could possibly intimidate his brother despite their similar size. "We got to look like we’re actually worth something if we want to have even a chance of getting hired on.”

Perhaps Murphy is made uneasy. His shoulders grow high for a moment, one hand lifting to push through his shaggy hair, "Then I-, I'll pick a fight with a drunk, knock over some merchant's stall." He's so flustered, trying so incredibly hard to come up with an alternative to his brother's asinine plan. Hans cannot help but feel for him.

Especially when Seamus latches onto that vulnerability so viciously, leaning even further into his brother's face, "Goddamnit, Murphy, do you even hear yourself? How the hell is that any different from flipping a tavern? Least that's a sure-."

"How the hell is that a sure thing?" Murphy looks a moment from bellowing, perhaps from violence. He even strikes out and shoves Seamus back with the flat of his palm, teeth flashing, "Where you going to go when the whole place is ready to cut your throat? Can't run through a _wall_ -."

"You used to have a fucking spine," Seamus seethes, words clipped and low, the same red aggravation climbing his flesh that has colored Murphy's face. "Don't have time to be dicking around just because you lost your stones up north. We are going to rob that goddamn tavern and-."

“Or,” Hans finally offers, voice sharp in an attempt to interject sucessfully, “we might proceed in a less destructive fashion?”

Seamus is entirely set to ignore him, but Murphy holds up a hand, as rude and abrupt a gesture of silence as one can make in an argument. It _incenses_ his brother even further, Seamus barking before Murphy’s mouth even opens, “What?” He is so loud, so brash, face lined in such impatient fury,  “What the hell do you want, red?”

Hans almost can't speak, Seamus’ snapped aggression twisting beneath his skin, curling in his gut with a sour sickness. A precusor to fright, to terror, to the way that this Stabbington unnerves him so entirely. Only Murphy’s nearness returns his courage, something so sharply wroth in his eye when he glances aside at his brother.

“I could direct your efforts towards a less risky avenue.” There is nothing pompous or the least self confident in his words, not even when he tries to sound less like some browbeat wretch. Impossible to manage in this man’s sight, no matter Murphy's presence. “A residential abode might-.”

“A what?” Hans knows not what about him so irritates Seamus, nor why the man cannot let him finish even a single sentence. “M’sorry _professor_ , you’ll have to make it a bit plainer for the rest of us.”

How is this fool so much a child? So petulant and contrary, little but insults and idiocy ever bothering to fall from his lips. If Hans was ever so immature as to hold his learning over others, any and all of that arrogance was bled out over the ocean. Vocabulary is hardly a boon when dealing with sun bronzed sailors, most more than ready to tussle with a pale son of a someone who might have assumed superiority by merit of nothing past spending his childhood in a library.

“Residential,” he repeats with barely held patience, irritation such a constant in Seamus’ presense. He even glances aside to share his aggravation, but the act is wasted. Murphy’s gaze is averted, an olden discomfort in the set of his jaw that Hans recognizes at once. Though he can’t exactly remember what the reason ever was. “The word refers to a place of residence, one seperate from the market. There will be less eyes to worry on at this time of day.” He actually has no idea, but if the household they strike at is of decent size and means, than it is entirely likely that children will be at lessons and staff will perhaps be out on errands or seeing to laundry.

There is little more they might hope for at present, fortune nothing that has shined so brightly on Hans in recent years.

But still Murphy is resistant, not that Hans really understands why, "Not worth getting caught. Outta just forget it and find some blades-."

“You can't parade around in rags and expect to be counted as more than filth,” Hans insists, tone harsher than he means. Frustration is never something he’s weathered well, prince or prisoner. Likely that is part of the reason he even ended up in Siberia, the whole of him so…so incredibly incapable of contentment, of peace and purpuseless existance.

Not that he will be able to manage any sort of existance lest he becomes useful. There is no other reason he even mustered the bare courage to come between these two as they feud. "This is the only course that allows either of you to proceed without drawing attention," Hans continues, glancing briefly aside at Seamus' clenched jaw. "No one would even realize the theft if we found a residence large and wealthy enough to not take immediate notice of some missing clothes." He has to convince them, has to have use again. The ability to assist in some way is now so _necessary,_ no matter how paltry or meagre.

Hans can no longer exist as a burden, as some selfish leech. Murphy deserves more than that.

Murphy will not even keep him otherwise.

Life without him is not something to be fathomed. Hans has been dependent on the existance of others long before taking penance in Siberia. The wealth attached to his lineage, the priviledge gifted by his mother's throne, all attributes he barely took true notice of even while reaping the benefit. Hans does not know how to exist without support, be that financial or otherwise. To lose Murphy, to be cast aside as he and his brother strike out for fortune and means...

Hans can barely stand the contemplation of such, his stomach twisting in sour denial every time.

"Honestly think there's a place like that around?" Seamus finally grunts, dismissive in tone despite the interest in his eyes.

"Of course," Hans assures, a rare confidence. "The size of the market alone proves that. Most of the stalls look as if they've been stood a long while, that evidence enough that the vendors likely live in the area." So many assumptions in a single statement, but Hans cannot appear hesitant. Not if there is to be any hope of Murphy changing his mind.

He hasn't explicitly mentioned leaving Hans behind, cast off to make his own pathetic way, but there can be nothing else he intends. Not a single comment has been made to imply that Hans could accompany, or that he would be able to follow should Murphy and Seamus actually get hired on to the caravan.

The whole endevor still seems so much of a fantasy, but if they do actually get the opportunity to leave Hans behind-.

No, he can't think on that. Not and retain even the least of his composure.

Difficult to manage when every moment the dread within edges higher, the certainty that he will be so completely undone if he can not prove himself in some way.

A near fridgid chill cuts through him when Murphy finally sighs his aquitance, relief never cascading through Hans quite so potently before.

-

They leave the main thoroughfare, the bustle and noise of the city soon behind them. Where the wealthy reside is not so great a mystery, the roads towards such always better, both in make and appearance. The ground is level, ditches far off to the side and nearly hidden by cattails. There are even stone markers that tell the distance from the main blocks of the city, though they only pass two before Hans finds the most fortuitous opportunity he's come across since Arendale.

"There," he murmurs, pausing in the shadow of some large apple trees, that evidence enough of the sort of locale they are in. Both Stabbingtons follow, forced to duck beneath the low branches. "Across the way, behind that fence."

"...Big place," Murphy grumbles, his demeanor still so sour. "Likely to have servants all over."

Unlikely, though the house is large. Three stories, excessive windows. Likely servants quarters below or attached to the opposite side, perhaps even an unseen stable. An empty one, of course. "Not here," Hans assures as he turns to Murphy and his brother, satisfaction surging in so rare a way, "not at a death den."

Hans barely sidesteps in time when Seamus spits at his feet. "Can't be," he grunts, not even a single explanation offered. "Doesn't even-."

"Of course it is," Hans snaps back, beyond even _entertaining_ whatever foolishness Seamus has brewing. "All those windows with candles in them, the back awning curtained in black, there's really no other reason for-."

"Won't," Murphy interrupts, his brow low and furrowed. "Can't just go pawing through a corpse’s stuff like that."

Good. Lord. "Why not?" Hans sighs, satisfaction slowly bleeding away. "Explain to me the difference between pilfering unused belongings and thieving a merchant?"

"Knocking a stall over ain't _nothing_ like traipsing into a-, into a goddamn-, into-."

"A death den," Hans supplies, frustration building anew when Murphy spits in tandem with his brother. "A residence that will have a horde of what you seek, unguarded and ignored." Such is barely an assumption, wealth near guaranteed if the deceased's relatives went to all the trouble of maintaining the dwelling and possessions within. An old custom, aristocratic and nearly pagan in every aspect, but an opportunity nonetheless.

Seamus' eyes are narrow, but he hasn't actually voiced disagreement. The hesitance is abundant in his demeanor, but if he can be convinced, then no doubt Murphy would follow suit.

Ridiculous that Hans even has to convince two _thieves_ of a mark worth their time.

“If it is a death den-,” they both spit to their left again, though Hans has not the patience to resist rolling his eyes, “-then there will be hardly anyone there. A tenant and a few servants, if that.” Probably some relation of the deceased, if tradition is being kept. "This is the only opportunity of decent success. There is no reason you couldn't overpower anyone you chanced upon within." Truer words never spoken. Even hungry and cold and largely weaponless, not a single attempt made on their lives had proven successful on the way south. Every brigand felled, every theif sent running, indomitable fortitude shown to such enviable affect in each Stabbington.

With that same strength still present, Hans cannot even begin to understand why either of them hesitate. Seamus is still silent, and Murphy is not even looking at the house, but away to the road.

"This could not possibly be easier," Hans insists, nearly desperate to make them see the merit here. "No one will even know the thievery took place. So long as you don't take something with a crest, or anything too recognizable, then no one would know."

"Well what if they need it all?" Murphy snaps as he turns back. And before Hans can ask who he even refers to, "What if that dead bastard actually needs all their stuff, wherever they're headed?"

"Murphy!" Hans is so surprised he almost grins, eyes creased in so sudden a surge of humor. "You can't truly believe that nonsense?"

"Isn't nonsense," Murphy mutters, so sullen and surly that Hans is nearly incapable of restraining laughter. He has to though, nothing so detrimental to Murphy's agreement than embarrassing him. Not that Hans really has any idea what else to say, or what to possibly do if Murphy honestly puts stock in such superstition.

It's startling to find him on the far side of sense.

"Nah, it's alright," Seamus decides, stepping forward. Hans doesn’t watch him go, his attention focused on a man that he never imagined would hold such ridiculous beliefs. “See all those rough edges on the awning? Has to of been there a while. Bastard's had plenty of time to take whatever needed."

Murphy looks overtop Hans’ head, the whole of him sagging some, as if that paltry evidence is enough to sooth his concern. “True enough. Can give it a go, suppose. Think you can pick that side door?” Seamus mutters something back as he and Murphy move towards the back stretch of the fence, a midway between friendly humor and annoyance that his skills are being drawn into question.

It almost doesn’t occur to follow, Hans glaring after in more irritation than he’s felt in so very long. The same sort of irritation forever spawned by sailors and their predilection towards gossip and fishtales. It is…infuriating to find the same in the man that is the only reason Hans yet draws breath.

But even that annoyance fades, has to when finally Murphy and his brother have evidence of Hans’ usefulness.

Again that relief takes him, chilling in the intensity.

-

Don't got all day, but there's nothing like impatience that stresses Seamus when he’s having at with a lock.

There's nothing else that Murphy's got brewing inside him though, every second spent out here a waste. A risk, even. Not that he's so sure as his brother and Hans that the place'll be empty. Or that there won’t be something worse than a butler waiting for them.  Near makes Murphy shiver just to think of some spirit bearing down on them the moment they actually breach the den. There’s not much that survives the heft of Murphy’s fist when he’s set to put a body down, but if them that’s trying to hurt him is already _dead_ -.

“Here.”

His worries get scattered as Murphy puts his hand out, an instant reflex that is apparently more than willing to do Hans' bidding. Murphy scowls a bit to realize it, but the feeling of cloth in his hand snags his attention. It's Hans’ blanket when he glances down, other hand striking out at once, curling around an arm just as thin as it was when Murphy first got himself a housemate. “Where the hell-.”

Little more than a twig again, but Hans still tries to tug himself free, as if he’s forgotten every time Murphy ever wrestled him down from being a fool. “Quit,” he complains, exasperation in his brow as he tries to pry off Murphy’s fingers. “I'll gain entrance, and open the back door."

Seamus’ laughter barks out sharp and sudden, making verbal the same disbelief lifting Murphy's brows.

“...Just give him a bit,” Murphy says when he sees those sea spring eyes narrow, careful to keep anything from his tone that Hans might take wrong. Hard as that is. “No need to-.”

“By the time he finishes the sun will be low,” Hans retorts, the words spoken quiet despite how obvious the intent to insult is. He jerks back on his arm again, and Murphy lets him go only because he knows he can grab him back quick if he has to. “I might as well _try_ to be useful.”

Goddamn, is he really still on that?

“Finding the place was more than enough,” Murphy tries to reason, his hand fisting in the blanket. It’s a measure distressing to actually see how thin Hans is without it. “If you just simmer for a bit-.”

“In a bit I could already have made my way inside,” Hans snaps, already in a temper for no reason Murphy even knows. “Let me make the attempt, at least.”

What can Murphy even say? What can he do? Here he is robbing a fucking death den, about set to piss off any spirits still hanging around, and now Hans, most of the reason he’s even bothering to worry on the risk and the pay off and the likelihood of even _surviving_ this stunt, wants to go prove something that Murphy’s known since long before they’d weathered their first blizzard together. And he can’t even say no.

The day got away from him at some point, but Murphy’s just not sure when.

-

Sure, his appearance is still some manner ragged, but Hans can manage an excuse, some way to even arouse sympathy for his imagined plight. A simple thing, what measures he can employ depending entirely on whomever he encounters when knocking at the front door. The possibilities are few, either the tenant themselves would answer or their staff, but that doesn’t truly matter. Not when Hans is capable of earning the confidence of either with ease.

This-, Lord, he’s not done this in so long. Not since Arendale, his attempts at winning over Murphy nothing that was actually contrived. More accidental if he is honest, not that Hans can be even the least irritated by that fact.

 Can’t afford a mistake now, not when so much hinges on his success. Can’t be too zealous, or anything that would give the other party pause. Allowing hesitation to bloom is the only reason something like this will possibly fail.

There isn’t enough time to really think through all his options entirely, despite the size of the house. Far too soon Hans is at the front, the air strange to feel without the buffer of his blanket. That strangeness overtakes him entirely when the front entrance way opens before he can get to the path before the porch.

A voice calls out, bright and clear, “Lock up behind me if you’re likely to nap, Nathaniel!”

A lady emerges, elegance in every aspect of her presence.  Her brown skin sweeps unblemished from her temples to the edge of her lace collar, the pale spread of flowers across the fabric of her dress the very embodiment of sunshine and summer. She does not turn his way, her vision perhaps obscured by the wide brim of her hat.

The tenant no doubt, though Hans has not the moment to draw attention to himself before the lady sighs, head tipping back. “A fine day, to be sure.” There is cheer in her voice, a soft smile on her face.

The sound of the lock turning forces Hans to rally, head tilted and smile crafted as he steps out from the shadows beside the porch, “Even were it not, I believe any clouds would flee and the sun would grow brighter just to make true your words.”

The lady turns to him, eyes creasing in clear delight behind tinted spectacles, “If only were that possible, sir! Every day would be thus if so, and I fear the farmers would state some complaint.”

“Too true,” Hans agrees as he pauses some strides from the base of the porch steps, head tipped in the barest self-deprecation, as if they are sharing some private humor that passersby would just fail to understand. "Though it is so regrettable that the common folk require such terrible weather to make their livelihood.”

Her brows curve up in immediate sympathy as she steps down, one gloved hand holding up the edge of her skirts as the other hovers above the porch rail, “Goodness, yes! And they must rise so early, the poor dears! With so much to do, I hardly know how they enjoy the sunshine.”

"We can only hope they find some way.” Hans’ chest begins to tighten, a tension climbing his spine as he folds his quivering hands behind him. “But you would not let such a day be wasted on work and errands, I trust?”

Inelegant phrasing, but the lady does not appear to notice. Her possibly sightless eyes crease in ample excitement, “I should think not! I shudder to consider spending even a moment more indoors.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Hans enthuses, hands clenching tighter. A tremor almost taking hold of him the longer he smiles. “Though I-, I wonder…” what does he wonder? Where are his words? Why is this so-, so _difficult_. Inordinately difficult.

Shouldn’t be though. Hans has ever been the master of feigning sincerity, at crafting the correct tone and mien to convince others that he held their piecemeal narratives about bland lives as something precious and remarkable. “I-, I wonder if-,” he can’t get the words out, each one sticking in his throat like overcooked rice. Hans can hardly breathe, heat sweeping up face, hands numb from how tightly they are clenched. “M-my apologies,” he finally stammers, composure in pieces, panic and retreat taking immediate reign. “Perhaps I’ve had too much sun. Good-, good day.”

So abrupt, so final, this attempt so incredibly _wrecked_ just because Hans couldn’t force himself to any sort of competence before a stranger.

The lady does not voice whatever suspicions she might have of his approach as he makes as if to step towards the road. Too well bred to fling accusations likely, a standard of discourse Hans learned as a lad.  Suspicious or not, a confused tip of her chin is his only farewell.

Hans doesn’t even humor the thought of recovering, no matter that once upon a time social manipulations were the easiest craft he knew.

-

“I couldn’t manage it,” he admits once returned, quivering hands still hidden behind him. He can’t bare for Murphy to see, the whole of him clenching in the strangest terror at the mere thought.

Murphy doesn’t look bothered at the failure, doesn’t even speak. He just gestures to the side with a thumb, where a weathered door stands ajar. Hans can imagine Seamus' smug satisfaction, though he makes no comment before reclaiming his blanket and following Murphy to wherever his detestable sibling has slunk.

His mood lifts when they enter, if only in the vague pleasure of being proven correct. Black banners stretch the length of one hall, though they are almost more a purplish charcoal, the ink warped in obvious age. The entirety of the manse reflects a similar weathering. The molding along the ceiling is cracked at the corners, paint flaked from application with an unskilled hand. There is a prevalent scent of ash and coal that gives evidence that the braizers and hearth are rarely emptied.

All signs that this den is drawing to a close, little attention paid to upkeep with the end so nigh. It is well they hadn't waited another day, relatives no doubt already enroute to claim their shares of the inheritance.

Discolored as they are, the banners still lead them to where Seamus waits outside an ornate door. Such patience is surprising, as is Seamus’ lack of audible scorn for Hans' obvious failure.

Likely he is only distracted by the possibility of what may exist within.

Though they may have attempted this all for nothing. This den might belong to some deceased dame, little beyond the door but petticoats and jewelry. Maybe some riding trousers, but doubtfully anything large enough for either Stabbington. The most they could walk away from here with would perhaps be whatever gold or silver the lady had tucked away in her belongings. A meager amount, nothing like what Murphy and his brother would need to be properly geared for the expedition.

Hans even expects that. For this entire endeavor to be a failure. For their whole day to have been a wasted effort, all because he’d thought himself so capable, so _clever_.

But he’s not. Doesn’t even know how to be that way anymore.

There’s not a moment to warn them though, to tell Murphy he’s sorry, to put a panicked halt to all this. The den isn’t locked, Seamus pushing within once his brother is near.

But then there is no need.

The room is filled with furniture, wardrobes and chests and cabinets all crowded against the walls, a excessively large bed in the center. The light is meagre, a single candle burning in the window, but even that is enough to see the size of the footwear piled atop a chest. That, and the painting of the deceased above the bed, the black cloth shrouding the edges of the frame all the proof Hans needs.

This...is perfect. In every possible way.

Hans can finally fill his lungs, the tightness gone. He steps forward and lets his blanket spread on the side of the bed, a decent catch-all for their discarded clothes. "Nothing with brocade, or embroidery," he murmurs, turning back to the wall to engage in battle with a dust-encased wardrobe. "Dull is dull, but it does fail to draw the eye." The hinges haven't seen a drop of oil in ages, evidenced by the sharp shriek given when Murphy reaches on either side of him and jerks the doors apart.

Splendor of a bygone generation meets Hans' eye, lace ruffles and round-bottomed sleeves hanging in ancient elegance. A disappointment, until he delves deeper and chances upon some stacked trousers and linens at the bottom. The material of the former must be coarse, just by the visible grain of the fabric, but Hans cannot actually tell. His hands are so calloused, so numbed and muted, softness not something he quite recalls anymore.

Hardly anything to care on though. He is changed, or perhaps ruined, in ways he'd never thought to comprehend. What matters the dysfunction of his fingers, when all of Hans is similarly wrecked?

"There," he calls, crafting his own distraction by dropping the stack on the bedspread for the Stabbingtons to pilfer through. They step over quickly, muttering to each other in rough half-words while Hans engages in the difficulties of finding anything in this den that will actually fit an individual less broad.

Dust must be affixed to every strand of his hair by the time he manages to reclothe himself in what has to be ancient fabric, bland garments that he has to roll at the ankle and elbow. Less than he had hoped, but Hans has known nothing but grimmed rags too long to be even the vaguest amount serious in his disappointment.

By the time he is proper the Stabbingtons are carrying on with surprising volume, almost more than what could be attributed to spirits. Seamus is, actually, once Hans has the attention to spare, a silver chain hanging from a colored stone in the man's overlarge hand.

His intentions are obvious, the chest still open that he pilfered the jewel from and Hans cannot even fathom his stupidity. Immediately he stalks forward, incredulation in every hissed word, _"What is wrong with you?_ More than they remember a waistcoat, a bauble like that will no doubt be noticed!" Hans does not hesitate to snatch the pendant from Seamus' fool hand despite the tremble of his own. Courage spurned forth by irritation even if Murphy's back is turned towards an uninvestigated armoire. "And here I thought you a competent thief! Was Corona's tiara pilfered through chance rather than skill?"

He is about to be struck.

Hans is sure in a way that he so rarely is these days. He knows, deep in his blood, in his very bone, that violence is soon to be upon him. Seamus' jaw gives evidence towards little else, clenched in pale fury. His eyes are so frigid and blue, narrow as a serpent readying to strike. The breadth of him becomes so suddenly apparent, such weight and heft obvious from the bulk of his hand, fingers still curled upward as if a pendant yet laid in their midst.

Hans cannot look away, such tension sweeping the length of his spine. Anticipation surging in every rapid beat of his heart.

There's a sound, humor in a breath, Murphy snorting as he jerks at the large doors of the armoire. It's like he has no idea the impending devastation in the air. "Little of both," he rumbles in audible amusement, as if the memory is something he remembers fondly. "If not for that backstabbing bastard, would've been our finest work yet."

A moment later Seamus turns away and Hans can _breathe_.

His chest eases, shoulders low, the whole of him going loose if only so that trembles can take entire reign of his body. He shakes like a leaf in the midst of a stormy night, knuckles clenched in a pale bluish desperation. He can't even speak, not one word offered when the armoire is breached and weaponry removed from its midst.

Murphy has such pleasure on his face as he turns back with a long blade in his hand, the hilt unadorned but thick. His brother emerges with one similar, the sheath darker, a lesser width to the steel.

Seems too elegant a tool for one so brutish.

Dangerous to think in such a way. Thought is but a precursor to action, and there exists a roiling aggression in Hans' blood that takes more effort than it ought to quell.

There can be no other reason he steps forward once the armoire is left, what yet exists of his long scorned pride rising from some unknown place. Almost it is as if a specter has taken dominion of his hands, the departed wraith of his once capable self forcing him to push the door further open.

Metal and leather gleam in the vague light, a sharp thrill razing his flesh.

-

To not be clothed as a beggar is almost a strange affair. Familiar, and still so incredibly gratifying in every single way, but Hans cannot shake the feeling that he exists almost as a ghost. An echo, perhaps, of a man long departed.

A man that was not even true, but more an artificial amalgamation of what one ought be. Of what might have gained him a smile, a kind word, a leg up on whatever petty goal he'd determined necessary in bringing himself some pleasure.

That pleasure never lasted, though. Was never enough. As a helmsman, perhaps then he had known some ease. Those he'd existed amongst had been of a different manner than Hans had ever considered within the palace. Coarse and so often belligerent, ill temper and offense passing with the same swiftness with which a sail unfurled. There was something honest in such labor, in being so exhausted by day's end that rank and pedigree had the least of importance.

Accomplishment had not been so difficult to know those days, though Hans has no idea why. He was still only himself, surplus and selfish.

The mark baked into his palm doesn't change that unfortunate fact.  The edges are almost foreign beneath Hans' finger, the scar so long covered by what scraps of cloth he'd been able to keep to himself after that Russian tyrant's reign. More foreign are the reddened extent of his fingers. He used to have thick callouses from palm to tip, evidence of work, of the effort required to wield a blade with any sort of skill. More skill than he can lay claim to now, three days practice a pittance compared to the time he devoted to swordsmanship in his youth.

His wrist hurts just as it used to, a familiar burn that Hans detests. This pain hearkened strength and greater eminence years before, but now it is just a reminder of his frailty. Of how far Hans has fallen in pursuit of juvenile dreams.

Despite that truth, no more can he exist as this pathetic leech. One incapable of his own defense, of pulling his weight.

They are a week from Eainshire, if Seamus' mutterings to his brother are to believed. Seven days, six now, for Hans to reaclimate to physical exertion. A task made less difficult when coin had been found in the bottom of the boots Seamus had taken, even more stowed down the side of Hans' sheath. Funds for food, for actual nourishment, for bread and meat and _cheese_. It had been something almost routine to drop the silver into Murphy's palm. As if formally handing over responsibility of himself, Hans so far from capable of the task.

A detestable state of being, but one that he is in little position to change. Despite his attempts at self discipline no improvement is apparent. The steel is one lighter than Hans can ever remember having, but still far too heavy to use effectively at his current weakness.

His arm still burns hours into the evening, a persistent ache that has replaced the clamoring of his stomach. One he distracts himself from while lazing before a fire, the flames between him and both Stabbingtons. "I've a question, if you'd humor me?"

Murphy glances up from his bread with a cocked brow, "When don't I?"

Truth, even if Hans only then realizes it. His lips curve before he can think better of it, the suddenness of his smile almost cracking his chapped lips. Impossible to resist, when looking on the dearest creature that has ever existed in his life. "True," he agrees, more pleased than he's been in weeks. “And in that case, my understanding was that the theft of the Lost Princess' tiara was a joint endeavor.” Silence, as Hans lets the words hang in the air, his eyes traveling lazily between each brother.

Murphy is the first to break, looking towards Seamus in a return of an irritatingly familiar manner. Awaiting a decision no doubt, the allotment of power again so incredibly clear.

Clearer, even, is Hans’ divergence from himself.

Perhaps it is only vain courage encouraged by his pilfered blade, but Seamus’ gaze and presence inspire far less tension that they did before. Not that there has been any substantial difference in the man’s deportment, his jocularity and juvenile sense of amusement fully returned now that he and his brother are less at odds. Even his…appetite is unchanged.

Hans can still see the carnal desire in his demeanor, the daily thirst for more intimate a physicality. With the least of effort Hans could even list the merits of indulging Seamus, calculation flaring behind his bored eyes in old routine. Hans doesn’t even bother to humor the thought though. Sure, he had been willing to whore himself to either of the Arendale witches for guarantee of an eventual throne, but there is no significant boon in engaging Seamus similarly. Not when Murphy still exists to be Hans' warmth and protection. Admittedly all for reasons unknown.

Reasons Hans is unlikely to ever determine, though his curiosity is far from spent despite the Stabbingtons’ sullen silence. "…Am I mistaken?” An innocent question, for all that it makes Seamus’ lip lift like a disturbed hound.

Murphy isn't nearly as recalcitrant, his voice so forever welcome. "Wasn't the tiara that got me sent up north," he mutters, "not entirely-."

"What the hell does it matter to you?" Seamus snaps, his brother returning to a swift silence.

Hans ignores him for a moment, gaze heavy and pleased on Murphy, tracing the jut of his jaw and mess of his hair with eyes undoubtedly much too fond. "Curious," he murmurs eventually, a daring emerging in his blood as he glances aside, one that has grown ever bolder the further they journey from ice and chill. "Be a shame to see him taken advantage of."

Oh, but those eyes sharpen _so_ venomously.

 "...Don't worry about it," Murphy encourages, going back to his dinner. "Nothing that matters now."

It does, though Hans subsides for the time being. He will have his answer, even if he has to wait.

-

His practice is not so solitary the closer they get to Eainshire. Sometimes Murphy will find where Hans wanders to and watch him, no words offered, a silence that didn’t develop until his brother appeared so very long ago. A voiceless spectator, gaze ever heavy.

It’s distracting as Hans tries to regain his olden ability. A largely fruitless effort, but that is hardly surprising. As terrible a tutor as Hans had been for Murphy, he is even worse in forcing himself to competence. There is no instructor present to adjust his grip or critique his form, Hans forced to rely on nothing but his ancient memories of assaulting imagined foes and straw enemies.

It all feels so incredibly pointless the longer he tries. Asinine, even, to strike out in the midst of this clearing.

“Here then,” Hans finally calls, pointing across from him with his sword, “entertain me.”

Murphy smiles, a rare sighting of his humor. He requires no further convincing, pulling his blade from his belt in a practiced slide, the sheath left on. Hans would be amused too, as entertainment is all they will manage. His wrist already aches from the sword’s meagre heft, a constant strain that surges as he slides the sheath back on, the weight greater. In no way will this bout be anything but an exercise in faux combat with a friend.

Or whatever he can claim Murphy as.

Determinations for later, the prospect of an actual opponent too exciting for focus to be elsewhere.

"Not so good at watching myself," Murphy warns, his concern ever warming.

"Then watch me instead," Hans returns, darting immediately forward, blade thrust forth.

Murphy's avoidance is more of a stumble than an intended manuver, the bulk of his body pitching to the side. He recovers, hardly, whipping around to arc his sword in a blunt parry of Hans' following swing. Surprise exists in his wide blue eye, “You’ve done this before?”

“Does my competence surprise you?” Hans slides back a step, the wind harsh on his grinning lips. “I’ve had practice in more than folding laundry.”

Murphy smiles back, such ridiculous exhilaration between them for naught but the swinging of buffered metal. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he returns as he comes forward, grass flying in the air when Hans dodges. “You make a decent pot of rice.”

“Hah!”

Soon Hans can barely breathe, chest tight, arms like great pillars of lead. His swings become less precise, so meagre as his accuracy already is with the sheath's added weight, but even then Hans can't quit his smile. His blood rushes in the opposite of terror, even in exhilaration, Murphy’s startled pleasure enough to force tired limbs to life.

Maybe this will convince him to let Hans stay.

This is proof, is evidence that Hans can hold his own. Not now maybe, nothing even barely lethal in his attempts to outmaneuver Murphy’s blade, but in the future. Soon even, if Murphy would do this with him more often. Sure, he’s not nearly proficient enough to be of any actual merit if he attempted to be hired on beside the Stabbingtons, but he could pretend competence. At least until his strength returned, his swiftness, that and his reclaimed skill all that would be necessary to-.

“Ho!” Seamus’ amusement echoes in a juvenile twang. Hans doesn’t look away, no matter that Murphy immediately turns. “Teaching him to swing a blade? That’s time already wasted.”

Hans doesn’t bother with correcting him. Instead he attaches the sheathed blade back to his belt, chest heaving as he leaves Murphy to his brother’s attention.

That’s all that matters, evidently.

-

To rest with a roof overhead, the floor firm and wooden, Hans could almost call this the height of luxury.

He knows better, of course, but that knowledge fails to sap his pleasure. Honestly this is an expense that Murphy shouldn't have allowed his brother to convince him of. Eainshire might be only a day away, but it would have been more sensible to hoard the coin. Especially if the caravan turns out late, or has already found others to hire.

That silver could have been another meal instead of lodging taken in this tavern's attic.

That is sense. Logic, even, but Hans really doesn't care. He's so comfortable, so loose in a way that he's not been since Siberia. The air is warm, the blankets below scentless and soft, as if Hans is the first to lay upon them since being laundered. Unlikely, but he is convinced enough for slumber to take him easily, his full stomach and Murphy’s nearby presence surely encouraging the fall.

The world is dark when he awakes later. Thought and coherence proceed so slowly, making the moments long before he realizes that there is a weight over him.

A thick weight. Solid. The sort of breadth that Hans has long known, that has invaded the few dreams that have quickened his breath since before that Russian tyrant ruined his world.

But that weight never touched him in such a way, a broad chest pressing against the back of his shoulders, large palms stroking down his sides. Each finger drags so insistently, swift and firm enough that so meagre a thrill emerges beneath Hans’ flesh.

He would smile, would maybe even urge his body back into this sudden warmth if he were not this gloriously loose, this ready and pleased to make such an acquaintance. He exhales into the blanket, the whole of him submerged in a nearly unknown ease, “You could have said-.”

A hand grips his throat, abrupt and firm, nails digging into his skin.

Tension wakes swift and sudden beneath Hans’ flesh. The welling interest that had begun to heat his stomach cools, a tightness surging the length of his body. He-, he swallows, heart speeding no matter how he attempts to convince himself of calm, of rationality. Murphy is not a violent man, has never even lifted a hand against him. Hans knows that, an irrefutable knowledge. He _knows_ , but it is as if his body does not. “…Are you-.”

“Shut up,” a curt voice whispers. A voice that is the furthest thing from Murphy’s gentle gruffness. “Don’t go waking him.”

No. _Nonono_. This-, Hans won’t. He can’t-, he has to move, to get this cretin _away_ -, “D-don’t-.”

“ _Quiet_ ,” Seamus insists, his grip tighter, words hissed wet and hot into Hans’ ear. “Don’t need him waking and throwing a fit. Damn selfish about his toys.”

Hans has no alternative but silence, Seamus’ grip so tight, so entirely eclipsing. His thumb and forefinger feel as if they almost touch, every shallow gasp of air barely allowed entrance. He can’t-, Lord, Hans can’t struggle, not really. Not in any way that matters. Seamus is so criminally large, eclipsing him with the least difficulty as his other hand again roams, delving beneath the few layers that cover Hans’ flesh.

There is no modesty in him, not even a modicum of shyness, his cold hand reaching immediately for Hans’ uninterested prick.

It is impossible to be still, to not try so desperately to jerk away, but Hans only finds himself forced more against Seamus’ palm when he tries, a low hum of-, of _appreciation_ vibrating from this wretched man’s chest. “You that eager?” Seamus murmurs against his throat, his knees suddenly between Hans’ legs, forcing them to spread against the floor. “Not getting done proper?”

He sounds so smug, so disgustingly self-satisfied, but Hans cannot even disagree, can’t bite or claw at him, not when his fingers are clenched in a frantic dread around the ones at his neck, lest he be denied breath entirely.  He's not been this frightened in so long, the whole of Seamus so terrible to behold. His massive shoulders, the firmness of his chest, the-, the heat and distinct feel of his arousal, pressing like a terror against Hans’ thigh.

Lord, he’s _shaking_ again, sour fear climbing his chest, “Ss-, sst-.”

And that mammoth hand tightens even more, breath near extinguished when Seamus forces Hans’ face further against the blankets, the coolness of the floor seeping past the thin fabric. “Won’t pay you if this keeps up,” he mutters, his hand finally sliding away from beneath Hans’ clothing. He is still aroused, still so _present_ , shifting himself closer until Hans’ back is forced to arch in accommodation of his thick legs.

A short reprieve, one Hans has no idea how to even take advantage of, his flesh then so swiftly bared.

Hot shame burns his eyes, nails digging into the calloused fingers at his throat, but Seamus does not care. Maybe doesn’t even _notice_ , too busy pulling again at Hans’ crotch, biting his neck and rocking against him, bare cock slick with something, probably the same thing as his fingers, a cold wetness that Hans _hates_ , that makes him want to wretch and shout. But Hans _can_ _’t_. Breath burning in his lungs, the blankets leeching the moisture from his eyes, he can do nothing but exist, even-, no no no, even when those slick fingers trail back, a chilling line across his skin, teeth on his shoulder, the fingers going further still, and he-, he has to, he has to now, a last desperate appeal, “ _Mur-_!”

Seamus’ fingers tighten to the point of fire, and Hans knows he’s going to die, knows that he shouldn’t have even _tried_ , should have just laid here and allowed himself to be defiled like the worthless scum he knows he is.

-

There’s half a sound, something sharp and sudden and already cut off. Something that strikes Murphy where he lays, that drags him up from the depth of slumber, pushing up on his forearms before he can even think straight, ready to go, to run, to-.

There’s movement in the darkness to his left, and it takes a long moment for Murphy to understand what he’s seeing.

He must make some noise, mouth open and an ache in his throat, but Murphy can barely hear through the rush of blood past his ears, can’t even consciously think on the movement of his feet as he launches across the room and forces his brother away.  “I told you to stay off him!” He’s never known fury like this, never been so ready to rage and fight and _maim_ , “I told you, damnit, I told you more than once!”

Seamus’ head knocks against the floor when Murphy decks him, his teeth bared as he twists to the side, “Not like I wasn’t going to give the whore coin!” Murphy can’t even respond, can’t think a single thing past how much he wants to bust open a face that’s nearly a mirror of his own. He even tries to, his knuckles splitting against his brother’s chin. It’s not in Seamus to stay down for long, his forehead smashing into Murphy’s a moment later, blood on his teeth as he snarls, “Was only putting the worthless bastard to some goddamn use!”

Can’t answer, throat closed in red hot fury. Murphy’s not got the sort of attention to waste on words when he’s struggling to put Seamus’ back against the floor and beat him bloody. He’s so fucking hard to keep in one spot, but Murphy can’t do anything but keep on, struggling as they roll against the wall, light jumping in his eye when his head gets slammed against the wood, his knuckles tender and torn as he cracks Seamus’ nose.

Gets caught up in blankets as he tries to get back vertical, knocking his head again as he stumbles back to the floor. Still manages to catch the boot aimed at his face and twist. Seamus goes to a knee, can’t stand right when he gets to his feet. Murphy takes him back down, nothing felt past the furious pace of his blood and incredible burn of his anger.

Burns worse when Seamus spits blood in his eye and gets himself free. Murphy can’t see but he reaches anyway, something bellowed from his throat after he hears the harried thunder of boots in retreat. By the time he can see its only to watch Seamus crash through the window, glass shattering all around him.

Murphy almost follows him out.

He even gets to the busted frame, but Seamus has already rolled off the edge of the wooden awning, the sounds of his escape masked by the ruckus that’s started up downstairs. _“Coward!”_ Murphy bellows, bloody knuckles fisted tight as he leans out into the night. Seamus is lucky he’s even _alive_ , that Murphy doesn’t run him down and beat him bloody, that he doesn’t _wreck_ him like he did that clansman back north. “Show your face again and you’ll get what’s coming, you goddamn snake!” He’d snap that ungrateful neck and not even care, would rip him apart with his very hands, would kill his own blood and be _glad_ for it.

The wood is splintering under his hands, but Murphy’s not even sure what to do with them, palms itching for his blade, for something blunt and heavy enough to do some damage.

He’s not even got a moment to calm, the ruckus below stealing his attention, angry shouts echoing into the night, lanterns and torches suddenly lighting the darkness from the tavern's windows. Clear enough were they’re headed, the stair already starting to echo with feet.

They have to leave, have to go now.  He’s not got the coin to pay for any of this, can’t risk getting thrown in lock up, not when Hans-.

_Hans._

Murphy whips around, can’t actually breathe until he spots a slim shadow tucked against the wall, his shaking seen even from this distance.

Not got the time to be gentle about this, the wake of violence still rushing his blood as Murphy steps towards him, each step echoing, “Up!” He’s too harsh, knows that as Hans flinches, curled small and helpless on the floor, trousers twisted around his knees. Murphy can’t help it, can’t even make himself quieter, every beat of his heart like a call to war, _“Get up!”_

Hans is up in a single moment, pressing back against the wall, a horrible wheeze rushing out as he drags his clothes back into place. His eyes are so bright in the moonlight, everything like fright and panic in them. He-, goddamnit, he’s not got anything on his feet, and Murphy knows he looks a monster, sounds like one as he bellows, flecks of blood flying from his mouth, “ _Keep your fucking boots on when you sleep!_ ”

It’s horrible, how Hans closes up, his face tipped down like Murphy won’t see the terror there, a hand to his mouth, teeth clenched between his thumb and forefinger like that’ll quit the miserable keens leaking out as he starts to cry.

Murphy can’t _stand_ that, not even a little, chest clenching all sour to see those bright eyes overflow. He tries to breathe out his rage, finds Hans’ fucking sandals and crouches in front of him. He’s saying words, doesn’t know what, just anything to get those sounds to stop. But Hans won’t quit flinching from the hands around his feet, and Murphy can’t be gentler, there’s no time, already a commotion echoing up the stairs. He’s sorry, he is, he’ll make it better later, but they’ve got to _go_.


	8. Chapter 8

The sun sets twice before Murphy lets them rest. The forest dirt is a far cry from the shelter they left, each rush of wind a brisk reminder of what awaits them back north. It's another eight days before they step out of the wilderness even briefly. Half of those that gave chase didn't last the hour, but the rest had known a better determination than whatever reward the inn had offered. Bit depressing to be hunted again, but Murphy doesn't have the patience to complain. Nor anyone that he’d burden with the words. He’s not even sure whether his brother lied about no one bothering him, or if those that chased had seen Murphy’s wanted posters elsewhere.

Being ignorant of what’s going on around him isn’t so rare a state to exist in. Seems like the whole of his life has been spent stumbling blindly from one situation to another, this latest leaving as much bitterness on his tongue as ash. A dark taste that seeps ever deeper every time he lets his thoughts wander to the reason his new clothes are already ripped and muddied.

Makes bile touch the back of his throat when he recalls that he doesn’t even know how far Seamus got. Not like Hans would say, even if Murphy knew how to ask.

Hasn't got an idea how to even try, not that he really wants to know. Blood thrums heavy and hard enough as it is when he can't avoid the thought of it. Not sure if he'd be able to handle knowing if his brother'd actually managed to feel Hans in ways that Murphy has only been able to wish on.

Bit sickening that he has the attention to be jealous. Impossible to pry the threads of envy from his anger though, everything twisted up so tight and furious. Goes all numb at just the thought of Seamus laying hands all over that pale skin.

Jaw clenches tight, fingers curling until his knuckles are bulging and lily white, Murphy can’t help but get swept away in the violence curling up his spine. Not bloodying his brother more than he did is a red hot regret roiling beneath his chest, aching with the clench of his fists. Hard not to imagine how else that night might've played out. Could've had Hans bed down closer, maybe even between Murphy and the wall. Easiest way to protect him from anyone sulking about in the dead of night, had Murphy mustered even a moment's thought to his safety.

Even should’ve sent Seamus off with some coin and let him find an actual whore. Someone to ease the fire in him before they made it to Eainshire.

Mouth tinges bitter again, hope and fantasies of something stable all withered and dead in his gut. Been more than a week since everything Murphy'd been working towards shattered in glass and blood, but the wound still festers. Worse than where his brother left marks, worse even than the gnaw of hunger, of cold and chill as he and Hans trek south.

This might not be the first opportunity to pass Murphy by, but it rankles like none other. More so knowing Seamus likely went on ahead no matter how bloodied.

Probably even got himself hired, rotten bastard that he is.

Rotten bastard that won't see half the profit he would've with Murphy beside him. Seamus is a hot blooded fool but he's not idiot enough to pilfer anything now. Bust like that just isn’t a one man job. Need to know rotations, to have a look out, to have someone else there sturdy enough not to buckle if the situation starts to go sideways.

But maybe he’s already managed it. Wouldn’t of been the hardest thing to get another partner for the job. Not one he trusts, but one that could do what needed done.

Course that's the sort of thinking that'll wind him up with backstabbing trash. Murphy won't be there to take the fall this time, though Seamus will have no one to blame but himself. Might even wind up getting marched north.

A sick satisfaction billows at the thought of Seamus finally getting what’s been coming to him for five years.

It’s only brief satisfaction though. Not enough for Murphy to be warmed by.

Nowhere near enough to distract him from Hans' silence.

Been nearly a fortnight since they bedded down in Chethiki but the only sounds Murphy’s heard out of him were the ragged swiftness of his exhales when they’d finally quit running. Hadn’t been a moment then to coax anything else out of him, and Murphy doesn't know how to go about trying now. Not when he's got little to offer and even less on the horizon.

-

He would rather not breathe.

Not even for another moment. Hans is a lit candle ready to be snuffed, a trout gasping for water on the cold ground. The barest distance from an end, from death entire, if he could only find a way to accomplish the deed. The insistence curls cold and furious in his gut, a damning drone of revulsion and tire, a unrelenting whisper of who he truly is. Weak and worth nothing of merit, the vague heat of his wrecked body the only true use he has.

Why did he even bother to resist?

A question that rings between his ears hourly, every step of every day an unrelenting reminder of what he's ruined. That he is a creature more selfish than the world has ever known is now no mere conjecture, the evidence abounding in their poverty. They'd had a roof, had food, Murphy on the cusp of procuring even _more,_ to no longer be a vagabond bereft of employment or means.

But Hans wrecked all that. Wrecked everything, and for no reason even worth the hassle. For nothing but his own selfish fear, his own pretentious insistence to never again be the forced bearer of another's carnal needs.

And now once more they are nothing, Murphy forced back to the life of a coinless drifter. One without true protection, their swords left behind in Chethiki. They walk less every day, hunger again so irrepressible a companion. Shelter is taken in abandoned shacks or beneath the forest canopy, heat so foreign a commodity. Murphy does not even rest beside him when they stop for the night, so concerned now on keeping a watch. An exhausting endeavor, but Hans does not refuse him.

Wouldn’t, even had he the ability. There is little Hans knows proficiency in anymore, survival a struggle that he would have buckled beneath long before if left to himself.

That he hasn’t, that still he exists as he does; worthless and base, devoid of even the _slightest_ ofredeeming qualities-.

Hans would rather not breathe, but hasn't the courage to try.

-

The moon hangs high and broken. A pale sickle in the midnight sky. Can see all the stars on a night this clear, not even a feathering of clouds in sight. Baiter’s Bow is brighter than Murphy is used to, though he hasn’t taken a moment to look for it in time out of mind. Points an arrow straight to the North Sea, not that he remembers why. Legend had something to do with felling a foe from the other side of the world, but that's as much as Murphy can muster from the dregs of memory.

Doesn’t much matter why though. Still points true to the sea, nighttime wanderings made easy when such a beacon lit the sky.

Strange comfort to see those stars again. Never got a glimpse of them on the tundra, nor had the interest to even look after the months began to drudge on. Just wasn't any point.

A yawn cracks his jaw as Murphy slouches further against the boulder holding him upright. The breeze isn't doing much to keep him awake, eyelids heavy as sacks of rice. Could do with some rice actually. Might've been bland as bland could be lest Hans had secreted them some salt or meat to stew with it, but a sated stomach doesn't much care on flavor.  The tundra had been little beyond a plateau of let blood and quiet death, but even that little had kept him alive.  Kept him warm and fed and washed.

Even kept him content, just the slightest pleased crease of sea spring eyes enough to make every ache worth the trouble it'd taken to keep two men fed.

Murphy would go to that trouble again, wouldn't hesitate even the slightest. Honest work had never much appealed, but neither'd cutting purses. What the work was didn’t matter so long as it kept him and his in food and fire. Though Murphy’s not got much to claim as his own anymore. Used to just be him and his brother before it became him and Hans. Maybe it was just too much to hope for that the two halves of his life could come together all neat and tidy.

No use moaning over a ship long sailed,  but Murphy can't help it.  Not with the night this quiet, everything so still. Even the breeze isn't doing much to keep him woke, too faint and nearly unfelt to be a deterrent from disappointment or slumber. Murphy can't indulge in one at present, and it's beyond hard not to dwell on how rotten his life's become. Or how rotten it's been since leaving Laybank so long ago.

Maybe he outta just give up on trying to make his way in the world and take Hans back home.

Murphy’s lips twist, more humor than pleasure at the thought. Not as if he’s got anything to offer no matter where they are. Might still be a hut stood in Laybank, but what’s a hearth without wood? Without food and drink and all the soft things that make a home worth the name? Couldn’t be more than a barren frame all these years later. There hadn’t been much they’d left behind when he and Seamus had set out, just some chairs that groaned when they were sat in and a table with uneven legs. Probably got made into kindling, if the whole place hadn’t just been swept away in the wet wrath of a spring storm.

There’s not much about Laybank that sticks with him as worth the remembering. Drafty and forever scented with hay, fish as uncertain as the crops.  They used to bake in the summer heat, the air so thick and heavy even if it’d rained not hours before. Was never people healthy enough to work the fields or the bay, trade never a thing that likely ever even touched Laybank’s shores.

That was years ago though. Before Murphy knew what a thief was, or had any thought that he’d one day be one.

Maybe it isn’t such a fool idea. Got no real idea how far they are from the North Sea and he won’t until there’s a map in his hands, but Baiter’s Bow can’t lie.

A sigh leaves his lips in a wisped haze, the world always so cold before the sun feels like getting up. Hans doesn’t twitch at the noise, as still and silent as he forever is these days. Hard to think he’s comfortable or getting any sort of decent rest when he’s all curled up in the long grass like that. Knees tucked high, arms wrapped around his chest, dirty sleeves tugged over his hands.

Hans would lay his head on freshly downed pillows and wrap himself in satin if Murphy had any say.

He wouldn’t ever hurt over anything more than a stubbed toe, would never again know the sickness of a stomach gone too long without food. His hair wouldn’t ever be so tangled unless it was Murphy’s fingers making a mess of it in their bed. His lips would never chap from too many nights spent outdoors, and his stomach would grow soft with meat and cheese and every sweet thing he ever had a want for. Wouldn’t be so rare to see Hans smile, to hear him laugh. He’d wear his hair long again and keep it tied back, so Murphy could come up behind and tug on the end to get him to tip his chin up for a kiss.

Murphy would kiss him every day. Every hour. He’d tuck him close in the night and work every minute of the day to keep him fed, to see Hans at as much ease as he’d been in their shack.

Shouldn’t be able to think on the tundra at all fondly, but Murphy just can’t help it when everything since is so far from where he thought they’d be.

The boulder takes the weight of his head as Murphy leans back and exhales. His lids are heavy, his blood still. Sleep beckons but Murphy won’t see any more tonight. Hans already took his own watch, and it’d just be cruel to wake him. Not when he might actually be getting some rest. Doesn’t look like he’s comfortable, but he’s never so still through the night.

Least not when they’re bedding down on nothing softer than prairie grass.

Can’t see much of him with the way he’s curled, but Murphy doesn’t bother to muster the energy to look away. It’s a fool thing to pretend that Hans would even let himself be kissed, or would want to share warmth in the night if there wasn’t a real need. Murphy doesn’t have enough going for him to really get Hans’ attention and keep it. Not the looks or the means, or anything else that would count in his favor. Being able to strongarm them both through whatever situation that arises can only count for so much.

But if they had a hearth, if they had a place to be safe, a real home with all the fixings, then…then Murphy could offer him more. Stability, even if not wealth.

And maybe…maybe that could be enough…

-

Light is a secondary awareness behind his eyelids.

Hans can feel his brows furrow, irritation sweeping through him in so instant a wave. He’s not even sure why, beyond that he is no longer submerged in slumber. A preferred state in all honesty. One where he need not dwell on the facts of his existence, of his constant failures and ineptitude. His faults cannot find him when he sleeps, dreams nothing he has the energy for these days.

He knows better than to let the dregs of tire reclaim him, and pushes up on his elbows. The task is more difficult than he would like, but that has been the truth of every morning spent in the wild. To rest does nothing to alleviate his aches. Almost it seems as though they are worse every morning, but Hans has not made the frailties of his body verbal. There is no reason to, not when Murphy might only be made impatient or irritated by the complaint.

Unlikely. There is not a single soul in all of creation even half so patient. Still, Hans is far from foolish enough to risk aggravating the only individual in the world willing to so constantly be in his presence.

He isn’t exactly sure where that individual presently is, sight yet blurred and indistinct as awareness fully takes hold, “Murphy?”

There’s a sound, almost like a murmur through water.

Hans yawns and leans back to sit on his feet. His hair is damp when he lifts a hand to push the mess aside, the strands strewn with the same morning dew that coats the prairie grass. He can see above the surrounding sea of green now. He says Murphy’s name again, and twists around fully when that murmur sounds once more. “Why are you whispering-.”

There is a woman behind him.

Her jaw is hidden beneath a tied bandana and a battered sword hangs on her belt. She is looking at him over her shoulder, clear aggravation in the furrow of her brow.

Hans cannot look away from her blade. He should call out for Murphy again, but his throat is too tight to manage volume, “…Hello.”

She doesn’t return his greeting, but he did not really expect she would. Instead the woman reaches for her belt, and Hans wastes no more time in gaining his feet.

“What do you want?!” he demands while stumbling away. Her stride is quicker, and Hans tries frantically to maintain the distance without tripping himself in the long grass. “Where is-, _hey!”_ He barely dodges her first strike. Not even by his own merit, but because her heel slid on the flattened grass where Hans had slept. The woman flails enough that he can rush past her on the right. She grabs at his arm, but is too unsteady to hold him fast.

If she says anything Hans does not hear. Blood roars in his ears. The beat of his heart is felt in his hands and feet, in his throat and behind his wide eyes. All he can see is grass and where the faraway tree tops touch the morning sky. Can’t see Murphy, can’t see him anywhere, but he couldn’t have left. That-, no, _no no no_ , he wouldn’t. Not after this long, not-, Lord, not after everything they’ve been through. Murphy wouldn’t just leave him like this.

But why not?

What good has Hans managed for him as of late? What benefit is there in letting a waste of a man hang off him, when Hans has already cost them both so much?

“Murphy?!” No, that-, good God, that just isn’t something Hans can think about. Not right now, and not later. He is nothing, has been nothing for so long, but Murphy’s never cared. He knows that Hans is weak and frail and _useless_ , but that hasn’t mattered before. It can’t matter now. Hans doesn’t-, Lord, he just doesn’t know what to do if it matters now. “ _Murphy_ -!”

The grass is thick, is slick still with morning dew, and Hans is moving too swiftly to keep his balance when something rolls beneath his foot. A rock, branches, Hans has no idea. He hits the ground on his hands and knees. His palms sting, but he can barely care.

Not when Murphy is then but strides from him, tied and gagged and half hidden behind a wall of grass. His eye is open and so _furious._ That same strange murmur echoes again when he tries to shout past the cloth choking his voice.  

Hans barely has a moment to gasp his name before hands fist in the back of his jerkin and flip him over.

There’s a man staring down at him, one masked behind a bandana. Hans doesn’t spend a moment trying to reason with him. Instead he swings a panicked fist at the man’s covered jaw, no one more surprised than himself when the impact is solid. Solid enough that the hold of his clothing goes loose, Hans then able to scurry back from the danger like some pathetic mouse. He flips over onto his knees and manages his feet as quickly as he can. Murphy is still a ways forward, but there’s a woman leaning over him now. A different woman with a dagger, though there’s nothing Hans can do about it.

Not when a hand clenches in the back of his collar and forces him to swing around.

The man again, with the first woman over his shoulder. His fist cracks once against Hans’ cheek before he falls away cussing, forced to his knees by the slickness of the grass. Hans can’t get away from his grip, can’t even try. But then a second later the woman’s heel slams against his jaw, grass and dirt kicked into the air as he falls back to the ground. The impact is barely noticed, his entire body rolling before he pushes back to his feet the moment he regains traction.

“Forget his bounty!” the woman over Murphy snarls, her voice echoing like thunder. “Just kill the prick!”

Immediately her comrades set after him. They aren’t breathing half so heavy as Hans, would already have been upon him if he wasn’t so adept at shifting through the prairie. It’s a fool thing to do, but he can’t help but turn enough to see if Murphy is still restrained. Grass catches at his ankle and he so swiftly returns to his knees, falling in desperate insistence as a blade slices towards his neck. Terror forces him to just lurch forward, his shoulder knocking against the man’s knees enough to fell them both. Hans would kill him if he could, if another so intent on his demise wasn’t already in the corner of his eyes.

Hans flips to his back and kicks out in rapid denial, satisfaction barely blossoming when the woman’s gut sinks against his heel.

She stumbles to the side, gasping as Hans rolls away to avoid the awkward stab of the man’s sword. The blade sinks into the grass where his arm had laid, that leverage used to bring the man swiftly back to his feet.

Too swiftly, there barely a distance between them. Hans has no idea how he manages to stand, how he can even move at all. The man gives chase, the woman too, and Hans can’t do a thing but sprint towards the treeline as fast as the prairie grass allows.  

-

The knot must come undone, or the ropes finally just snap apart, because the next moment Murphy has his arms back and decks the woman kneeling over him square in the jaw.

His knuckles tear on her teeth, but Murphy doesn’t have a second to care. Takes longer than he wants to get his legs free, but then he’s lurching up on unsteady feet and ripping the gag free. The woman tries to follow him but can’t do much when Murphy grabs hold and snaps her neck. Doesn’t watch her fall, doesn’t have time. He lurches out into the prairie on numb legs, the long grass hardly a help as it tangles around his ankles and knees. “Hans!”

They’re not too far off, and Hans isn’t fool enough to stop running. Those chasing him give pause and glance back though, just as Murphy’d figured they would.

He’s the big catch here, Hans nothing compared to what Murphy’s head is worth.

That’s fact, but the woman still keeps on after Hans like she doesn’t even care about the coin anymore. The guy isn’t of the same mind and charges Murphy like he’s a goddamn bull.

There’s not much Murphy can do but charge him back.

Barely gets an arm up in time to interrupt the swing of the guy’s sword. Murphy’s fingers curl around a wrist nearly as thick as his own while his other grabs at the guy’s throat. A forehead snaps against his nose before he can squeeze hard enough to do any damage. Loses his grip, even loses his sight for half a second, and that’s enough for the bastard to rip himself free and try to get enough distance to swing his sword.

Murphy barrels back into him before he can, the guy’s stomach sinking around his shoulder as he throws him to the ground. Follows him down, but Murphy can’t get him to let loose that sword. Just has to hold the bastard’s arm against the flattened grass and work on breaking his face with a fist. The bandana falls off before Murphy gets thrown forward by an unexpected shove of the guy’s hips. Get dirt and grass in his mouth, but Murphy twists on his back and puts his boot in the guy’s face before he can get too close.

Back on his feet then, and glances to the left just in time to see Hans fall.

Got no idea why, but then the woman lunges up from the grass not too far from them. Apparently they’re having as much trouble keeping their feet as Murphy is, but that’s cold comfort. She’s still got a sword and Hans can’t outrun the edge forever.

Not that Murphy’s any better. The bastard chasing him is a scrappy as they come and already back on his feet. He spits blood, maybe a tooth, and then lurches forward sword first. “Not getting out of this, Stabbington!” Strange to hear his name after so long. Doesn’t make the blade bearing down on him any less sharp, and Murphy trips over a boulder as tall as his knees trying to avoid the swing.

Lands strange, something uncertain and painful straining in his leg. He buckles the first time he tries to stand.

Never been too lucky, but the guy takes a downward swing just as Murphy goes back to the ground. The sword shatters against the boulder, and Murphy manages to get back up quick enough to do the same to the bastard’s jaw.

They both fall over. Grass gets in his mouth again, and his knuckles are torn more than they already were, but this is the tipping point. Been in this position enough times in his life enough to know. If he just keeps on, if he doesn’t let up for even a _second_ , then Murphy’s got this. He’ll walk away with his life, with Hans’ life. They’ll go towards the coast and make the home that Murphy was dreaming about all night instead of keeping a blasted watch. Just have to end this. To crack this bounty hunting bastard’s face open until he’s breathing blood instead of air.

Guy just refuses to go quietly.

Something flashes in his hand, a sliver of that shattered sword. He lunges and something burns beneath Murphy’s chin before he can get both hands around the bastard’s throat and squeeze the life from him.

There’s a flex under his palm, a separation of bone. Of muscle. The man spits blood and chokes all by himself after Murphy pushes up and away.

No time to watch him die, or even to catch his own breath. Hard to do that anyway. There’s red on his fingers, more when Murphy touches them to his throat. Can feel the gouge beyond the slick letting of his own life, though there isn’t much attention he can pay to either. Not when Hans is on the ground again a dozen strides from him, pushing up on spindle thin arms.

The woman is too close to breed comfort. Her face isn’t covered anymore, a snarl on her dark lips as she stalks through the grass.

“Leave him be!”

She doesn’t even glance aside at Murphy’s bark. Her lip lifts when Hans tries to get to his feet. Clear enough what she thinks of him, of this twig of man sucking every desperate breath past his teeth. That he’s still alive, that he’s avoided her for so long, has got to rankle.

Won’t for much longer if she gets to Hans before Murphy can.

He tries to run, to manage some sort of speed. The grass is just so goddamn slick. Even the ground is softer on this stretch of the prairie, each step sinking in farther than it has any right to. He’s lurching more than anything else, the tightness in his knee surging with every stride.

Hans is still on his knees. He’s got to know she’s there, got to at least hear her coming near. Murphy tries to warn him anyway, but he just doesn’t have the breath. His throat stings, his lungs are heaving, there’s just too much going on with his body for it being this fucking early in the day. He can’t do a single thing but watch as Hans tries again to make some distance.

Gets barely three steps before he goes down.

The woman laughs. Sharp and sudden, like she didn’t even mean to.

Barely a distraction, but enough for Murphy to lunge forward. Still can’t reach her, can’t even reach Hans. But he’s gets a handful of rocks and dirt and flings it all towards her face before she can’t make to swing her sword.

Gets in her mouth, probably in her eyes, and that is diversion enough for Hans to shove himself back and knock the bitch on her ass.

Murphy’s on them before she can get her bearings. He’s not sure where the strength comes from, not when the whole of him hurts like it does, but he takes her by the collar and belt and just throws her as far as he possibly can.

She crashes down nearly further than he can believe. Can’t see her for a moment, but then the long grass ripples where she landed. Barely a moment passes before she’s up and sprinting towards the trees.

Murphy’s not got the energy to give chase.

A mistake. He knows it is. This is the sort of thing that’ll get under a body’s skin, that’ll itch and fester like a wound gone too long without being washed. He’s got enough grudges to know.

Naught to be done about it. She’s too far away to kill, and Murphy’s not sure he could right now anyway. Not when he’s this tired. This hungry and hurt. This miserable, even though the day’s only just begun.

Piss poor way of thinking, and there’s too much to be done to indulge it.

Hans is on his feet again when Murphy glances, still catching his breath. Follows when Murphy moves back towards the bastard that tried to slit his throat. Hasn’t been dead long enough to cool. Chest is still though. Eyes glassy. All more than enough for Murphy to kneel down and set to.

No coin on him. No other weapons. Cloak is decent but the boots aren’t worth taking, and his belt is nearly flayed through around the buckle. Got some bracelets that Murphy manages to snap as he’s trying to get them off. They aren’t gold, but still might be worth something if Murphy can find a merchant that hasn’t seen his face scrawled across a poster. Bare chance of that, but he’ll hold out. Only other thing worth scavenging is a pocket watch that Murphy fishes out of the guy’s vest.

It’s rusted on the outside and dangles on an iron chain. Doesn’t tick when Murphy holds it to his ear. Latch doesn’t come away as easy as it should when he tries to open it. There’s a face sketched on the inside. Sharp eyes and a sharper smile. Small dots that might be freckles between her eyes. Looks a bit too much like the dead woman lying over where Murphy woke this morning.

He tucks the watch back inside the guy’s vest. Wasn’t working anyway.

An excuse, though Murphy’s isn’t too sure why he’s trying to give one to himself. He’s not an honest man, but at least he’s one with standards.

Hah. Fucking fool is the only thing he is. Proved it last night. Only got one goddamn eye to keep open, and he couldn’t even manage that.

Would be dead already if he wasn’t worth more with a heartbeat than without.

Murphy’s not ashamed of himself often, just doesn’t have the patience to be, but this-, god, this cuts deep. Deeper than anything has in a while. Failure isn’t exactly foreign, but rarely can it be laid so squarely at his feet. This isn’t someone else’s mess he’s cleaning up. Not even something his brother got them into. There just isn’t anyone else here to blame, and that smarts as much as his body right now.

Every ache is still there when Murphy stands. They don’t go away as he wades over towards the woman. His knee is catching with every step, and strains when he crouches to go through the bitch’s pockets. Nothing on her either. Nothing they can take at least. Not after he notices an emblem all over her gear.

It’s stamped into her boots and buckle, and threaded into her cuffs. Even on the pommel of the dagger, the jagged lines bright as they catch sunlight. Mark of a guild, though not one Murphy recognizes.

Makes taking anything with it too risky though.

Murphy unfolds the cloak from over his arm, and sighs deep in his throat when he notices that the whole thing is woven with rows of the same design.

Figures.

The slightest break they could get, and Murphy’s nearly more disappointed by that than he is anything else. At least the sword strapped to her back is plain. No maker’s mark that he can see, nothing about it that looks much different than a thousand others. Short though, lighter than he likes.

Doesn’t matter. A blade’s a blade, even if Murphy didn’t want to get one this way.

Not much else to do but get gone before that other woman has a thought to bring some of her guild back with her.

Murphy sighs through his nose and gets to his feet. Hans is near enough that his nerves don’t spike. Looks like a scarecrow, just standing there while the long grass moves around him in the wind.

He’s shaking.

“Hey,” Murphy says, always rougher than he means, his throat cleared before he tries again, “Hans-.” But Hans just turns away, as if Murphy hasn’t already seen how high his shoulders are or the bright anger of his eyes. Murphy reaches, a quick snake of his arm, but only hates himself the more when Hans starts at the touch and rips himself away.

He even whips around and shows his teeth, blood high in his face. Stops before Murphy can reach again, his eyes so goddamn wild.  Like he was expecting to see something other than Murphy grabbing at him.

Or someone, more like.

"Hans-. "

" _Don't,_ " he demands, an arm flung out like he can force Murphy away. “Don’t you dare even pretend that-, that-.” His face blotches red and he shows his teeth again, his fingers curling back into a quivering fist. He doesn’t manage more words. Just makes a pitched noise in his throat that’s far too wretched not to make Murphy’s stomach clench up all sick and sour. His eyes are so blasted bright too, sunlight catching on what must be a brimming of tears.

Murphy can’t help but go forward. “Didn’t-, didn’t mean to fall asleep.” His shoulders are low, every other step a little stuttered as he works past the ache blossoming in his knee. Hans doesn’t want to hear what he has to say, clear enough in how his nose crinkles, but Murphy can’t do a thing but limp near and see what his stupidity wrought. "I'm sorry-."

 _“Stop_ _it_ ,” Hans snaps, his eyes still wet even if the rest of him seems fit to bite. Never looks so fierce as when he’s upset like this, too much anger frothing inside not to heat his eyes. He stutters a breath in through his teeth and pushes his hands up through his bangs. Shaking still, but Murphy’s not fool enough to mention it. “I-, I’m not-.” Whatever he’s not is too much for him to manage, the words all rasped and mangled as he sucks in another harsh breath. Glances up and catches sight of Murphy’s throat then, and near trips in his rush to come near, “Good lord, man!”

“Just a scratch,” Murphy tries, catching at Hans’ arm to keep him stood. A lie, but not that much of one. He doesn’t deserve being worried over anyway.

“ _A_ _scratch_ ,” Hans scoffs, his words too breathy to disguise the fright in them. He doesn’t flinch from being held, and even reaches up.

Murphy doesn’t let him touch, the sword dropped to take hold of both of Hans’ elbows, “There’s nothing wrong-.”

“It’s still _bleeding_ , Murphy, what’s the matter with you?”

“It’s not that bad-.”

But Hans won’t believe it, is trembling even harder.  "Just let me," he pleads, as if he really doesn't know that Murphy wouldn't give him the whole goddamn world if he could.

Can’t, but at least this is in his power; much as there isn’t anything but time that’ll bring his flesh back together. "Really ain't nothing to worry on."

Truth, but that doesn't stop Hans from taking Murphy's jaw in hand and turning him towards the sun.

It hurts to stretch the flesh beneath his chin like that, but Murphy just holds his breath past the sting. He can feel the skin come apart a little more before Hans sucks in another shallow breath through his teeth. Fingers even grip a little tighter,  but Murphy just reaches up and catches at one of Hans' too thin wrists. "It's fine,"  he tries to smile as he drops his chin back down, as if a curve of his lips can make up for the blood dripping down his throat. "Not half so deep as it could've been."

Cold comfort, but Hans nods at him like he's never heard such sense. His lip is bitten, his fingers cool as they slide down either side of Murphy’s neck. "You're fine," he agrees, even if his voice doubts. “Of course you’re fine, you always are.”

He’s still shaking. Murphy can’t feel the tremble of those pale fingers when they drop away, but Hans still looks so far from well. There’s a dark color blooming on his cheek, a ruddiness that Murphy hates like he hates himself. Hard to tell if that’s all the hurt he managed.

Murphy would ask, but Hans speaks before he can. “You should cover it.”

Probably, but Murphy’s not got anything clean enough to do the job. “In a bit.” He’s more worried with getting out of this prairie at present. Have to soon. He’s got no idea where that woman ran, or how close any of her mates are. Every moment here is a moment that could be better spent getting gone.

That’s fact, but Murphy can’t muster the energy to even try when those bright green eyes are still staring at him like he’s three sheets to the wind. “It’s not that deep.”

Hans shudders and drops his gaze. His eyes are still wet, even if he doesn’t look angry. Looks miserable, if Murphy’s any judge. "I-I'm sorry."

“Sorry?” Murphy parrots, brows high. He tries to reach again but Hans won’t be touched, his retreat as swift as a startled hare. “What’ve you got to be sorry about? Was my watch-.”

“You shouldn’t even have to _watch_ ,” Hans bites out, a hand over his eyes while the other crosses his chest like the most pitiful shield there ever was. “You shouldn’t have to be hurt like this, shouldn’t have to traipse through the countryside like some common criminal!”

As if Murphy’s ever been anything else. “…But I am.”

That’s a mistake, the sort of mistake that he had no idea he was even about to make.

Can’t be anything but when Hans makes so high and horrid a noise, a misery too strong to hold in. A misery that Murphy doesn’t even understand, that Hans won’t make plain. He just shudders again and tries to breathe, still hiding his eyes behind his shaking hand. “I-I’m sorry,” he forces out, so quiet and broke. “I'm so sorry, I'm sorry for _everything,_ I-." Makes that sound again, that godawful pitched keen, one so sad and low that Murphy can't quit the sour clenching of his gut, grief pushing through him like a sickness.

Hates the feeling, but he hates Hans’ tears worse. One runs the length of his cheek, and Murphy needs to be close to him like he needs air. Almost isn’t a decision when he goes forward, more a lurch than anything else when his knee gives out. Hans wouldn’t have been able to avoid him even if he’d been looking. He goes all stiff and uncertain when Murphy’s arms close around and tuck him near. Even tries to push away, something weak and half sobbed the only protest he seems able to make. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he says again, more rasp than words. “I-I didn't mean for this, for you to be h-hurt and hunted.”

This isn't his fault, not even a _little,_ but how the hell is Murphy supposed to convince him of that? “None of this is because of you.”

But Hans just shakes his head, dirty hair so far from soft where it brushes against Murphy’s jaw. “You know it is,” he accuses, as if he really thinks Murphy’s trying to blow smoke up his skirt. “We wouldn’t be like this, _wouldn_ _’t even be_ _chased_ , if-, if I’d just-.”

His words fail again and he tries to move away, but Murphy just holds him close. “If you’d what?”

Hans exhales, a heavy warmth against Murphy’s shoulder. Whispers then, so quiet. So ragged and drowned in shame, “If-, god, Murphy, if I’d just let him do as he liked.”

Something prickles under Murphy’s skin. He doesn’t give it any mind. Won’t. Not…not when there’s just no way in the world that Hans is talking about what Murphy’s gut insists. “…Who’s him?”

Tries to ask it soft, but there’s a dread creeping up the back of his throat that makes everything come out far harsher than he wants it too. Almost don’t even want to hear the answer, but Hans just can’t mean-.

There’s another warmth against his shoulder, and Hans’ whole body just goes small and tight in his arms, “Your brother.”

Murphy’s chest doesn’t move, his blood goes still. He almost can’t feel the body trembling against his own with how his flesh is prickling all over, “…What of him?” He doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t have the slightest desire to hear whatever vileness that Hans has had brewing inside since that goddamn night, but Murphy’s stuck his foot too deep in this pit to pull himself out. Can’t even try when Hans goes slack against him, like the strings holding him up just snap apart all at once.

“I should’ve just let him have me,” Hans whispers, shame still so thick in his every word. “He thought I was a whore, and I-, I  was too selfish not to just lie there and-.”

“ _Don_ _’t_ ,” Murphy rasps, more bark than word. He’s too loud, too sudden, sure he is when Hans flinches, but there’s no other way he knows how to be right now. “Don’t you dare say that.” Can’t handle it, won’t even listen to the rest.

“But you wouldn’t be like this,” Hans insists. His quivering hands lift and grip Murphy’s shirt on either side as he presses near, like he can just hide from this whole godawful day if he gets close enough. “You’d have work, have warm clothes and food and-, and _everything_ you’ve ever wanted-.”

“I want you safe.” Truth. As much truth as Murphy’s ever said, but Hans won’t believe him. He tries to push back, to argue, but Murpy only holds him tighter. Tight as he can without making him shatter. "Don’t care if that means I sleep on dirt for the next goddamn year. Not going to let you get bothered just to make my lot easier.” Can’t even stomach the thought. Murphy’s not ignorant enough to believe it didn’t happen on the tundra, not after Mihailovitch tore them apart.

Can’t change that, but there’s nothing Murphy won’t do to stop the same from happening ever again. Would do anything to quit Hans’ trembles too, but Murphy just doesn’t know how to comfort a body proper. Can’t do a thing but hold him, even as tears soak his shoulder.

Hans’ fingers grip tighter, “You shouldn’t have to live like this.”

Murphy would laugh if he had the energy, “This is nothing.” He drops his chin low enough that Hans’ head can bear the weight. Doesn’t lessen the sting of his throat, but it lets Murphy surround Hans so much as he can right now. “Been through a lot worse and still came out the other side. You know that." They both have, together or apart, even if Hans is too upset to agree.

He's hungry, is all. Hungry and cold and still so bitter over Seamus, but it'll pass.

Has to pass, because Murphy just doesn't know what to do otherwise.

-

They begin to trek west, not that Hans has much idea why.

He doesn’t even have the care to ask.

They pass the next days with only as much food as can be scavenged from their surroundings. Bitter greens and shriveled roots, a handful of mushrooms with white button tops. It is less the hunger that plagues Hans and more the way his body will lose feeling. His hands, his arms, a strange prickle beneath his flesh that only accentuates his degrading use. Sometimes his vision will dim as they walk to a higher elevation, or so persistent a dizziness will flare to life behind his eyes. 

Murphy will let them rest if he notices, but only if they are in an area that doesn’t make him nervous. More than once he has only reached back for Hans’ wrist and pulled him to his side, stride lessening enough that Hans need not strain to keep up.

He is so constant in his protection. Still for no reason understood. Hans hasn’t the courage to question him. Almost hasn’t the interest.

Hasn’t really the interest for anything, Murphy’s growing difficulties an exception.

Silence is nothing rare between them, but now it is less habit and more that neither of them have the breath for conversation. Surely Murphy hungers no differently, but that can't be the reason he sucks air past his teeth as they walk. A bare deterent to gasping in his breaths, to hiding his labored inhales.

Hans is too familiar with this dear man not to notice such oddities. Even were he not, the sweat that continually shines on Murphy’s flesh is evidence enough that something is amiss.

Hans would attempt some comment, but they've danced this number before.

A day more, and he doesn't even need to.

Dawn breaks grey and chilly. The sky is bereft of clouds, nothing above to block the assault of the sun as it climbs the horizon. Hans wakes three times before awareness truly trickles past the drowsy tire that forever clings to the back of his eyes. Pebbles and fallen pine needles stick to the scraggly length of his beard, all brushed away with a quivering hand as Hans yawns and glances over his shoulder.

Murphy is there of course, stretched out beside him on his shoulder. He is facing the other way, his head pillowed on his own bent arm. Even on the ground he is so massive. The vague unease that had spawned within Hans’ chest as he woke fades so swiftly. There is nothing in the world so comforting as existing in the shadow of so steadfast an individual.

There is nothing quite as invalidating either.

No, that isn't the right sentiment. Hans knows he is lesser, that he is so incredibly outclassed by Murphy's strength and unwavering endurance, but he is too familiar with that fact to be resentful. He is not invalidated, but more... more incapable of bringing any ease to the man that is the only reason Hans still draws breath. That is the only thing that truly aggravates him, to give nothing in return. Whether desired or not, his existence is maintained only by Murphy’s allowance. By his kindness. By his unwavering adherence to whatever reason he has for keeping Hans so constantly at his side.

It is too easy to pretend as though that reason might be so simple as affection.

Hans will not dare claim anything more, not even in the haven of his own thoughts and fantasies. To imagine Murphy as-, as desirous of him is…

Lord, it is just too pathetic to contemplate.

“It’s late,” he observes aloud. A pitiful distraction from his own thoughts, but the morning is already a ways gone. Hans yawns while he awaits Murphy’s response, and sits up on his knees when he doesn’t hear one. Murphy is near enough to touch, though Hans can’t imagine how he managed to avoid slumber laying as he is. Hans reaches over and grips a broad shoulder while attempting to sound much more enthused about travel than he actually is, “We should be off soon.”

Still nothing. Not a grunt, or any sort of acknowledgement, not even a twitch of his shoulder. Strange.  Murphy rarely ignores him, and never on purpose. At least when he’s…

At least when he’s awake.

Which Murphy isn’t.

Tire evaporates so instantly from Hans’ blood. The hairs along his arms stand up as sudden fright eclipses him whole. His chest grows tight as he glances around like a startled hare. His heart beats so heavy, so _loud_ , but-.

But there is nothing.

Nothing frightening at least. No voices call out, no twigs snap to indicate the approach of someone unknown. Insects make noise and a bird trills high above. There could be someone already hidden in the underbrush, but Hans doesn’t feel watched. It’s ridiculous to actually think that he’d be able to tell if anyone terrible was lying in wait behind a tree, but Hans has no senses to rely on but his own. Not when Murphy has again failed to keep a full watch.

That sounds so horrid. Almost like blame. Murphy doesn’t deserve such ingratitude, even-, even if he is asleep. Asleep and so completely defenseless to any that might have attempted to do them harm.

Hans still can’t be sure there isn’t danger lurking somewhere within the trees, but he has to force his unease away. His body protests when he gains his feet and crosses to Murphy’s other side.

Murphy still doesn’t take note, his slumber evident now that Hans can see that his right eye is shut. Even easier to note is the strangeness of his skin. Hans crouches beside him and considers the gaunt shadows beneath his long stubble. That and the way his brow glistens in the early light. The flesh is warm after Hans wipes the sweat away with a sleeve. Murphy doesn't murmur at the weight of his palm, doesn’t wake at all even after Hans grips his shoulder again and says his name.

Instead he just rolls to his back, heedless to his surroundings.

Hans inhales to sigh and becomes aware of an odor. One more pungent than that of stale sweat and unwashed flesh.

One more akin to rot and disease.

The source is evident with Murphy’s throat now bared, his collar too low to obscure the cut beneath his chin. The parting gleams dully beneath a haze of stubble, what can only be some ghastly mess of blood and puss. The result of leaving an unwashed wound to just fester and worsen in the open air.

Hans can’t help the frustration that fists his hands. " _Good Lord_ , Murphy," he breathes, soft denial that lodges in his throat like a stone.

And of course Murphy then wakes, his brow growing creased as he blinks to awareness. His eye is dull, the white almost more grey than not. “…Did I-.”

“Only for a moment,” Hans cuts in, the lie falling from his lips as naturally as they used to. There is no point in berating Murphy for this lapse, not when he is clearly so far from healthy. “But I’m afraid the morning is too far gone to indulge a nap.”

Murphy grunts agreement, such tire in the long sigh that then lessens the width of his chest. He doesn’t rise with any of his usual ease, but takes a moment just to breathe after pushing up on his arms. He lets Hans help him to his feet, though they are both gasping by the time Murphy can stand.

There is no time to catch their breath, the sun much higher overhead than it has any right to be.

They spend the rest of the morning walking down a valley. It takes the whole afternoon to trek around the steep base of the hill that follows, every step more draining than the last. Murphy has to rest so often, and for longer each time. He tries so valiantly to maintain his pace, to be upright, to endure, but he can do nothing if he cannot breathe. It isn’t such a mystery now, when Hans knows that fever has taken him whole.

It doesn’t mean he’s not a fool, one that pushes himself so terribly far. More than once Hans has just taken his arm and played at exhaustion until Murphy’s let them rest. It’s the only way to get him off his feet, stubborn pride sidestepped when no actual comment is made on the realities of his health.

A mistake, perhaps, when the next morning Murphy doesn’t rise at all.


	9. Chapter 9

"Murphy."

Still nothing.

"Murphy, _please_."

That heavy brow does not wrinkle. Mammoth hands do not flex. Murphy lays lax and quiet against the long grass of the same meadow they took shelter in a day ago, now insensate and adrift in fever. Sweat gleams along his dirtied hairline and against the flat of his grizzled cheeks. He doesn't murmur or turn away when Hans touches his jaw with fingers that quiver in so constant a frailty.

Hans begs. He pleads and _demands_ and promises everything he can possibly think of. Potatoes and meat, warm blankets and new boots. Hot baths and a real bed, one with thick blankets of wool and freshly downed pillows. Impossible one and all, but Hans lies until he has no lies left to give. He calls Murphy’s name again and again. More he screams it until his throat is raw. Until his ears ring with the pathetic chords of his own desperation, fingers clenched and pale in the wet folds of Murphy’s collar.

Useless. Of course it's useless.

“How can you be this stubborn?” Hans rasps, hands still caught in sweat-dampened fabric. _“How?”_

Murphy doesn’t tell him. Murphy can't. His each breath is so shallow, the lift of his chest barely seen. The skin around his eyes is jaundiced, and even loose enough to let wrinkles cast shadow. He's never looked so withered. So sick. So weak and wretched.

He's never looked so old.

Hans’ eyes are wet when he forces them shut. His throat swells no matter how he tries to breathe past the sour wash of misery that bathes the back of his tongue. It's not even a foreign misery, but one known so long ago.

Oh, but that isn't true. Not really. It's been…Hans can't even be sure of how long they've been gone from that place of ice and pain. Impossible when he can still recall the prickling crawl of chill across his flesh, and the rabid terror that swarmed so constantly in his blood. Never did that tide ebb, that yawning pit of unending despair. Not after Murphy left him all alone.

“You always do,” Hans bites out, hands flinching back from Murphy’s collar in a quiver, balled once again into powerless fists. He hears his own pettiness. His spite.

He doesn't care.

He won't care. He refuses to. Murphy didn't care when he left Hans on the tundra with little but a branded palm and a sack of rice. He certainly didn't care when he put himself into this _exact same situation_ , working himself to the point of sickened exhaustion. Endlessly trudging out into that frigid waste until he was wheezing and weak. Until he was brittle and slow and barely capable of his own defense. He didn't care that Hans had to go begging to some backwater medicine-maker like a collared slave.

But that's all Hans is. No chains bind him, but that is only a formality. He does not belong to himself and he hasn't in…in so very long.

Since before the tundra, really.

“Yes,” Hans mutters, drying his eyes with a grimed sleeve, “keep moaning. See where that gets you.”

He's just so tired. So finished.

But he can't be. Not with Murphy this undone. More undone than he's ever been. He needs medicine. A poultice, a tonic, _anything_ to ease his fever, to lessen the sickness in his blood.

He needs what Hans just does not have.

-

The bustle of civilization is far more unnerving than Hans had honestly anticipated.

Carriages and carts whistle by in the streets while the crowds move down the middle of the bazar in a seamless dance that he does not dare join. Banners ripple in a brisk breeze and dogs bark from rubbish-strewn alleys. The scents of habitation conspire to make Hans gag after so long spent in the wilderness. Not that he is so much better himself. Rubbing crushed lavender beneath his jaw and jerkin cannot possibly be counted the same as a wash.

But regardless of his hygiene no heads turn to watch him pass. Hawkers hawk and peddlers peddle. Coin passes hand to hand with nauseating swiftness, goods of every sort surrounding Hans on all sides. Goods he can't partake of, that exist in such volume only to mock him. To catch his eyes and make him yearn for that which he cannot possibly have. There are stands of butchered beef and fish, tents full of sturdy cloaks and jackets that sway enticingly in the passing breeze. Baskets of fruit stand by to be plucked by any ready hand, so near, so _easy_ , that Hans’ stomach turns in a wistful gurgle.

But no gold, no repute, Hans hasn't even anything to trade. Nothing beyond the blade Murphy took days ago, but Hans isn't that foolish. He won't be twice, at least. This sword is broader than the one left behind in Chethiki, and far duller. Its heavy enough to drag Han’s belt down his narrow hips, the flat of the blade slapping his knee at every stride where it's hidden beneath his long coat .

Cold comfort. Almost none at all.

The sudden impact of a shoulder nearly sends Hans to his knees. A snarled shout makes his hands tremble worse than they already are. Hans drops his chin until he can see nothing but the cracked cobblestones below and shoves himself past. He doesn’t stop until he can hear beyond the throbbing beat of his heart, until he is not surrounded on all sides by strangers of every sort.

Maybe that’s the hardest part. The most terrifying.

Hans is but one among many. Singular in every way. He never used to care about being alone, never feared the stares of those unknown or the uncertainty of a hand too near. He'd never been so popular as some his brothers, couldn't ever just walk into a ball like forever-loved Liam and come back out with the hearts of every man and maid, but he was never so destitute as this. So-, good Lord, so _vulnerable_. So exposed now, without Murphy here to keep the rest of the world at bay.

Murphy’s not here though.

He's forty minutes away lying amid grass and insects, awash with fever and incapable of his own protection. Hans couldn't even move him, not to drag him into the shadow of a bush or even to roll him on a side, that the sun not beat down upon him without reprieve.

Murphy's helpless. Exhausted and sick, and so entirely dependent on Hans right now, even if unknowingly.

Only unknowingly.

If Murphy were aware, if he could manage his feet or even _consciousness_ , he wouldn’t have had Hans attempt this madness. He wouldn’t have asked Hans for a single thing.  He never has. More than likely he’s always known that Hans has no true ability, no skills of real worth. Was it not in pity that Murphy first let him take shelter? As of late survival has been more accidental than ought else. Hans can’t deny that, couldn’t even try. But where does that leave him?

Where does that leave Murphy?

Hans can’t just…he can’t not _try_.

-

The church is Hans’ first disappointment.

There’s a choir in rehearsal when he first approaches a chapel of some kind. The organ is so loud that Hans can’t even hear himself when he tries to get the attention of a man in starched robes. He tries again with someone else, a matron far too aged for her scarlet nails, but she outpaces him as if there aren't more than a dozen years between them. Bell-bearers run to and fro, and youths in flapping white headscarves rush past with the single-minded focus of bees in a hive. There’s no one in the pews, not even a sin-soothe in the confessionals.

Hans doesn’t dare come too close to any group or another, but he tries, again and again and _again,_ to find someone willing to lend him even the briefest ear.

It is only when he tries to sneak some water from a pitcher against the wall that a pair of burly monks come hurry him away.

He goes to the labor streets next. Hans is careful to cling to the edge of the road, or to exist in shadow so long as he can before stepping near any establishment. There’s almost as many people here as there was the bazar. Governors and nannies walk their flocks with scolds and meaningless threats, and graying draft horses pull carts overladen with pottery and metal.

Oh, but the sight of a glossy taupe steed makes Hans' knees go so very weak.

If only a little taller, a little broader.

But no, that’s just cruel. More cruel than Hans can stand, to imagine sweet Sitron in this place. She deserves nothing less than wild orchards and sprawling fields and autumn-fresh loganberries. Not frigid nights with nothing overhead and the terrible disgrace of bearing a criminal rider. She’s such a loyal creature though, she’d likely not even care.

But the way she screamed…the dreadful noise she made, when Hans was led past in chains…

He _cannot_ think of her. Not right now.

Maybe not ever.

The labor streets prove just as disappointing, once Hans musters his composure. None will take him on. One after the other, and each the same. They need no labor, they have no errands that need doing. No stalls Hans can muck, no gardens to weed or harvest. Not even some poultry for him to feather. No one actually looks at him, not that Hans doesn’t realize why. He isn’t a person anymore, or at least not one that matters. Where once he was royal, now he is riffraff of the lowest sort.

Lower even than that, likely. As low as the ground beneath his feet.

But maybe that's alright. Maybe that's exactly what Hans needs to be.

Because there, across the road, is a rather suspect door.

It isn’t painted red, but a scarlet lantern hangs above it made in the eastern way. A thing of paper screens and glowing color. He heard once that every such lantern held a pair of fairies inside, the glimmer of their wings what gave such ethereal radiance and color.

A fool’s tale, Hans had decided at the time, but after Arendelle he’s not so sure.

Not that it makes the slightest difference either way. There could be a dozen faeries crammed inside for all Hans cares. What matters, what makes something at once terrible and anticipatory crawl up Hans’ spine, is the opportunity represented.

Why not?

How further has he to fall?

The two women on the stoop don’t look destitute when Hans get closer. Not even desperate. Some sort of dark jewel hangs from the taller woman’s ear. Obsidian, or maybe a sapphire. She is by far the politer of the two. Her lip does not immediately lift in the same disgust that her associate’s does, as if affronted that he even dare disgrace their stoop with his unwashed shadow.

Hans has never known the specific shame of being judged by a whore.

“Madams fair,” he manages as he bows. Neither are of a height with him, but it still seems as though they tower above on the highest step of the stoop. “Might I be allowed a moment of your time?”

“Just a moment?” the one to the right sighs, before her painted lips come together in a juvenile pout. “What a pity.”

“Shush now,” the other woman murmurs as Hans' ears heat, with a voice far too elegant for the doorway of a bawdy house. “What seek you, stranger?”

This is it.

This is the moment when Hans will become what Seamus always thought him to be.

“Work.” He tries to smile winningly, as if his entire being isn’t rife with reviled heat. Not that it should be. He is already defiled. Already ruined in ways too numerous to count.

What matters a few ways more?

“…Work,” the taller woman repeats quietly, as a delicate brow takes height.

It isn’t difficult to understand her hesitation.

They see the beard Hans did not even try to comb, and the greased sheen of his unwashed hair. No doubt they can smell the ugly musk that clings to him when the wind is still, the overlay of lavender an almost sickening addition. His cheek is probably even still bruised, little as much a determent to intimacy as the indigo remnants of another’s hands.

But that's all fine, all fixable.

He’ll just have to win her over.

“Quite,” Hans agrees, lips yet spread in a smile he doesn't mean. “I have just come south and find myself in need of gainful employment.”

The woman to the right makes some sort of giggling utterance that Hans can’t quite understand. It’s difficult to keep the irritation from his bearing, to be this false man of confidence and civility. Not that the wench deserves such courtesy.

“…You are aware,” the other woman begins, with the sort of kind lassitude with which one might explain something to a half-wit, “the sort of service this establishment provides?”

Confidence, Hans reminds himself. Confidence is key.

“I-, well, yes. Yes, of course,” he stumbles out, incapable of keeping her gaze for a brief second. He recovers quickly, but doesn't feel the better for it. “I wouldn’t think to waste your time otherwise.”

The wench rolls her eyes as she crosses her shapely arms. The change in posture makes more blatant her hips, and shows off the round slope of her shoulders. “I’m sure you’ve references,” she says flippantly, something so cruel in the way a slim finger taps at her emerald lip.

“…The Opal Chamber,” Hans lies, though he knows it’s a fool thing to name the most infamous cat house in Corona. “But briefly,” he hedges, when both their eyes widen, “before taking on some…private clients.”

Oh, how he hopes that is a thing done.

The wench hums then, flashing the other woman an amused glance. “What clients!” she enthuses, almost sweet enough that another would have believed her. Hans might, but he’s played the part of faux interest too often himself to be fooled. “Why, it must have been the king and queen to make up for the Opal’s wage!”

The other woman’s lips quirk briefly before decorum retakes her. Hans tries to resist the taste of defeat welling on the back of his tongue. “The Opal well knows their craft…Did you come to them with experience already in hand? Was it cock or cunt you serviced?”

This...this is perhaps one of the most unfortunate conversations Hans has ever had.  “I-, well, a bit of both, I suppose?” he tries, because he honestly has no clue what the right answer is. The way she said it, the way the wench beside her still smirks, makes it seem as though there is some hidden trap here. Some secret whore knowledge that will soon prove Hans a liar. “As I said, I was there but briefly-.”

“Yes, yes, the royal bedwarmer, we recall,” the wench drawls as she inspects the tips of her flawless nails. “With such an arrangement, one couldn’t possibly imagine why you’d ever leave.”

The other woman tuts quietly before Hans can scrape together a defense. “Now, now,” she chides softly. “Let his reasons be his own, as are yours.”

Hans might adore this woman. 

The wrench pouts again, but still in that juvenile way. Maybe that is the mask she wears. Acting the part of a moody youth instead of a painted whore with no prospects for the future.

Hans hates her already, even though he's about to become the same.

But then the wench smiles again and turns back Hans’ way. “A stranger looking for work,” she croons, all fake sweetness. “One with very little experience, shall we say? Perhaps even…none at all?”

She giggles to herself when the other woman shushes her once more.

“We are not generally in the practice of…training,” the women then begins, before Hans can defend his non-existent work history, and with such deliberate emphasis on the last word as to make his foolish ears heat. “And a great many of our clients are not particularly disposed towards gingers.”

“Dye it,” Hans says at once, but perhaps too eagerly. “I-, it is not something I am unwilling to consider, that is. Nor do I believe I would require any…training.” He tries not to shudder at the thought.

The woman considers him for another quiet moment. She folds her hands serenely before her, as if they are discussing something far more bland than the business of flesh. “But even so…you will require some upkeep.”

Shame is such a constant in his life that there's absolutely no reason that it should again weigh upon him so.

“I-, yes, I realize,” Hans admits, as regretfully as he can manage. “My journey south was not without some difficulty.”

Should he mention Murphy? Maybe to draw upon their pity, if they even have any?

No, not yet. Patience is better. The woman, clearly the house mistress, has already decided to take him on. She wouldn't still be bothering with Hans otherwise.

This is just routine, a way to make clear his current worth, so as to keep his wages low. This is a business, after all.

So Hans will let her clean and dress and shave him, and do whatever she like to his already-wrecked hair. Then later tonight he’ll find someone, maybe he’ll seduce a stable worker, someone that would have the means to help him bring Murphy in from the wild. And then…

And then Hans will have a job. He'll have shelter and sustenance, and Murphy will have all the same. He’ll be treated and have a bath, and have that ghastly thing under his chin stitched by competent hands. They will have a _life_ again. Means and employment, and everything else that entails. Murphy will have a better sword, and a coat with no holes. He'll have any and everything he could possibly ever want.

And all Hans has to do is spread his legs.

“Have you any specialty?”

The question startles him. So much so that Hans hasn't a ready answer. He's still submerged in the fantasy behind his eyes. “I-, well, I’m not sure I… I don't know what you-.”

“Let me make it easy, darling.” The wench grins down at him with the cruelest brown eyes Hans has ever seen. “What _exactly_ are you willing to do?”

That is the question.

Well, no, it’s not. Not anymore. Hans knows the answer. He knew the answer when he first entered this terrible town. Murphy’s situation hasn’t changed, and neither has his own. This…this is what Hans must do, the weight he must pull. This is survival.

Moreover, this is Murphy’s survival, and that’s really all that matters.

“…Whatever you require.” His voice shakes, but maybe they don’t notice.

The woman and the wrench share a brief glance and step inside to have an even briefer word.

-

He's ready to admit defeat.

Turned aside by whores, ignored by the clergy, kicked and spit upon when he’d spent a shameful quarter hour begging beside a tavern. Hans has tried it all, tried everything he can to make his way in this vile town. He'd even tried to be _honest_ about it.

But that's his mistake, isn't it? He should have pocketed something from the church, should have followed those whores inside and held steel to their throat until every bit of their gaudy jewelry was in his hand. He should have run the butcher through and stolen his purse in the very first establishment Hans entered, that and every bit of meat he could possibly carry. Mistakes. One and all. Mistakes that have cost him such time, when already he could have been on his way back to Murphy.

“Careful now!”

Hans flinches, but the hail wasn’t for him.

There’s a child in the road, a boy far too young to be out on his own. He waves cheerily at a shop clerk before continuing on. His curls are dark and his cheeks full. Already his chin is double, proof there of affluence. Of wealth and stability. Of all the things Hans could once claim as his own.

There’s a sack of coin in his fat little hand.

It jiggles like a chime, swinging there at the boy’s side. A tidy sum, even if only filled with copper.

Enough to buy a tonic. Maybe even more.

Hans once overheard the oldest of his brothers, forever stoic Guenther with his narrow face of stone, say that coincidence was an uneducated man’s explanation for the workings of a world beyond his control.

He must have been right, for this feels nothing like chance.

This is opportunity of the purest sort.

It's beyond simple to trap the child in a blocked alley. Hans follows on quiet feet. The boy doesn't find the promised reward, an imagined puppy stuck under a crate. He finds nothing but dirt and rubbish, and turns with a confused noise that withers to nothing when he sees Hans’ sword.

No one hears the boy start to cry, not with the noise of the organ bellowing from the church next door. “Maman,” he pleads, with his red face and bawling eyes. “I want my maman!”

Hans can't let him live.

That is just reality. Unfortunate fact.

This boy, this foolish child, is so much an opportunity. His death a necessity. Can't trust him to be silent were Hans just to rob him. There’s not even the slightest doubt as to whether or not he’d run bawling to the first guardsman he stumbles upon.

There'd be a manhunt, not one Hans would be able to escape the way he is. The boy is dressed too finely to imagine there wouldn't be an uproar. The buckles on his shoes shine, his stockings are embroidered in silver thread. His breeches and jerkin are free of stains, of tears or patches. He is a pampered creature. A favored son. One so secure in his pedigree that even caution was flung to the wind, that sack of coins allowed to swing from his plump fist without a single care.

Was Hans ever the same? Oblivious to the world and so inexcusably blind to all its dangers?

Impossible. His lip lifts at the very thought.

The child sees and begs again for his mother. He cowers there in the rubbish when Hans comes near, his chubby red face hidden away in his trembling hands.

It is something familiar, when Hans raises his arm.

He was a different man when last he held a sword like this. He was a man of means and ability. A man of determination, of drive and ideals. A man who would have had a kingdom, a _throne_ , and even a land all his very own. When last Hans held a sword this high it was to smite a witch. It was to end a plague of snow and ice, it was to be something…to be worth something.

Now…

Now Hans is just a ruined husk trying to keep his head above water.

This unfortunate child will be but the first step in remaking Hans into the man he used to be.

“ _M-m-maman_ ,” the boy sobs, shuddering there on the ground. “ _Papa_ ,” he cries, as if he honestly believes that either would care.

But maybe they would.

Maybe it will not be one life Hans ends here today, but three.

The boy sobs once more, and…

…and Hans just can’t.

How pathetic.

“ _Stop it_ ,” he snaps, his lips twisted into a furious snarl. He won't abide such sniveling and howls. Crying never unlocked the closet door when his brothers shoved him in, tears never once allowed him even the briefest touch from his mother. Screams never stopped those _animals_ , those repugnant mistakes of humanity that took and took and _took_ until Hans was out of his mind with pain and fear and cold! "I told you to stop!"

And the boy does, barely. He shakes and quivers there in the dirt, lips all a tremble.

Hans _hates_ him _._ “Well!” he barks. “Go on!”

The boy sprints for the mouth of the alley, every breath still a sob. Hans can again hear the jingle of coin against coin. He could catch up and finish this if only he ran after.

He doesn’t even try.

-

Maybe he's a fool not to escape, to remain despite the danger.

Already the streets are in flux, vagabonds and cretins of all sorts flushed from the northern extent of town as they avoid the sudden surge of guardsmen.

Hans can hear their bugles from here. He doesn't rush as much as he would like, though more for a lack of breath than to avoid suspicion. His chest aches with every inhale as he tries to hurry, a sharp pain that spears his flank. The sword is heavier than it was. He shouldn’t have brought it. Just one more mistake to top the pile.

They'll maim him even if Hans isn’t fit with a noose. Likely a hand. Maybe an eye, or his tongue. All things he doesn’t actually need, but that he so desperately wishes to keep.

Perhaps he’d rather be hung.

Is it strange that a brief fantasy of the same flashes behind his eyes? That Hans can picture himself with a stretched neck and ruddy face, that the thought of being gone from this waste of life feels almost like the next logical step?

Murphy. He must think of Murphy.

But else can Hans do? He begged, he pleaded for labor, he was even willing to sell his flesh. To let strangers defile and touch him however they'd have liked. But the whores refused his work, just as did the labor streets. Hans was too desperate. Too obviously stricken by the contagious plague of poverty.

He’ll just have to turn back. Find an apothecary, a midwife, anything or anyone that Hans can steal or threaten into bringing Murphy some ease.

But that means Hans has to stop running. That he must wade back into that detestable sea of humanity. A sea from which he might not return.

...Murphy is worth that risk.

He was worth that child's life too.

“Halt!”

Hans freezes on the side of a dark little alley, breath held and eyes painfully wide.

There's sound behind him, the tread of feet. Of many feet. “Hands away to either side and turnabout!”

It isn't even a conscious decision when Hans begins to run.

He knew it was foolish, he knew he knew _he knew_. This is all his fault, his fault in every way. If he’d played his part better with the whores and tradesmen, if he’d only woken sooner when those bounty-seekers had been trussing Murphy on the ground. If-, oh, if he’d just let Seamus take him, right there on the attic floor.

None of this would have happened. None of it at all.

It was wrong to leave the tundra. Wrong to let Murphy lure him back from the crazed creature that the ice had wrought.

Mistake after mistake after mistake, and now Hans will pay the price, now he’ll get exactly what he-.

Gravel rolls under his boots when Hans skids around a corner.

He falls and tastes dirt. His hands are scratched, the knees of his trousers torn, but there’s no time to care. Pain doesn’t matter, his breath doesn’t matter, nothing does but getting away, but getting hid. His legs buckle twice before he can get upright, and even then he has to hold himself up on a filthy wall. There’s no-where to _go_ , no-where to _hide_. They’re going to kill him, right in this little alley. He’ll bleed out in the dirt and have nothing to show for himself. Nothing to show for Murphy, whose probably already been found and vandalized and-.

 _There_.

There’s a door set into the next building, made almost invisible by the shadows and grime. A split door, one with a seam seven hands up from the bottom. Likely where some pity-minded individual once stood and served the poor bread and oats.

Hans scurries close as fast as he can, dirt yet on his tongue as he sucks in each desperate breath. He tries the top, then the bottom, and hardly recalls how to move his chest when the wood cracks open. He can see a hanging chain in the darkness. One that was clearly never refastened after the last time this door was used. A kick of his foot, and the bottom half swings open entirely.

It is dark within. There are no voices, no other sounds.

Hans scrambles in as quick as he might and shoves the door back shut. He collapses there against it, heart raging in his ear. Each breath burns, fresh dizziness spawning behind his eyes. He tries to grab the chain, to make it latch. Can’t, of course he can’t, not with these quivering hands. Instead he just presses his shoulder against the wood and huddles there on the floor, as if he’d have even the smallest chance of truly holding anyone at bay.

A moment, one more, and he can hear the pounding echo of the guardsmen turning the corner.

Hans can't breathe, can't see, eyes squeezed shut as if that's ever actually kept him from harm-.

Someone on high must pity him. The guardsmen don't even pause at the door.

It isn't until the echo of their pounding feet fades entirely that Hans can remember how to exhale. His whole body feels a fire. A tinging desperation yet clings to his blood, relief so potent as to make wet his eyes.

Composure escapes him for many minutes before Hans can finally force himself from the floor. He knows he can't linger.

The light is vague, a dark sort of gloom that gives him little assistance. There are shelves to his either side; empty and caked in dust. The floor is little different, and specs of filth fill the few beams of light that invade around the seams of the door. There’s an entrance way before him, and a dark hall on the other side. One just as dusty. Cobwebs hang from the corners of the ceilings, caked in that same prevalent dust.

It is beyond that hall, on the other side of an ancient curtain, that Hans finally finds his salvation.

He’s stumbled into a place of worship. One not so far gone from the grandeur of old. Tapestries adorn every wall, the edges littered with stains and tears, the fabric dull where sunlight was allowed to leech what once might have been brilliant color. The pews are painted in a myriad of hues, where sunlight streams through the stained glass set high within the walls. A year’s worth of saints stare forth from each window, judging one and all.

Hans doesn’t pay them any mind. He keeps his eyes low, or forward, sure never to linger on one face or another.

It’s as if they won’t see him if he looks no one in the eye.

He used to play a similar game as a child. When hiding behind his mother’s throne, or if he’d found a toy he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have. And always whenever a certain few of his brothers were near, though Hans had largely outgrown that nervousness by the time he’d learned how to read and write.

He thought he had at least, but that old tension wells again.

And then it surges, so sudden and sharp, when a soft noise emerges from the pulpit far forward.

It’s soft. Indistinct. Too distorted by the echo of the chamber to really be identified.

“Must you?” A voice tinged in age mutters.

Hans immediately ducks down behind a pew, his heart once more all a rush.

There’s a woman moving from behind the pulpit. A priestess, from the look of her. She doesn’t look Hans' way, but steps towards a little table set with a pitcher and a chalice. Her robe is beyond ornate, swathed in dark embroidery a full hand's width along every hem and cuff. Something glitters on her fingers, but Hans is too far away to really see. “Always this dreadful crying,” she mutters, before taking a long draw from the chalice. “I can’t imagine why you think it will help.”

Who is she talking to?

No one replies, no one comes into view.

Maybe there’s no one there.

Not that it matters, when this is another opportunity. One that cannot be squandered.

“Mother,” Hans calls, careful to keep his ragged coat from showing the length of his sword when he comes from behind the pew. “A moment, good Mother!”

She almost drops the chalice, so entire is her start. “Trespasser!”

“My apologies,” Hans says at once, still hurrying near. “But please, I need-.”

“Away!” she screeches, piercing enough to make ring Hans’ ears. “Souless mutt! Ginger devil! Taint not this sanctuary!”

“I ask not for myself,” Hans cries, for surely that will matter. This is a place of worship, of those meaningless ideals of sacrifice and love for thy neighbor. “I beg of you, _anything_. Coin, medicine, even just some bread-.”

“Begone!” The echo rings overhead, reverberating off every wall and saint-bearing window. “Trespass not one step further on this holy land!” The priestess flings a bottle at him, a little vial that strikes Hans’ shoulder and shatters on the ground in a spray of water. Or maybe it’s the holy kind.

Hans doesn’t know. He doesn’t care. He tried to be honest. He tried to be good, to appeal to people’s better nature by forcing his own.

He tried and tried and _tried_ , but where has that gotten him?

Why is he trying still?

When Hans takes another step, it is with steel in hand. It is with nothing good in his heart.

Fear overtakes the priestess’ furious eyes.

She tries to call for help, but it is upon Hans’ sword that her last breath dies.

When she falls gurgling to the floor Hans is not slow to follow her down. He takes the gold from her throat and wrist, and even her spectacles and the many rings upon her bony fingers. Her ornate robe, filthy and faded now that he’s near, cleans the bloody evidence from his blade.

Something flickers in the corner of his eye, and Hans turns with teeth bared and steel high.

But it’s just a girl.

She stares at him from behind the pulpit, tucked down near the floor. Not a child, but far from a woman. Her eyes are wide and wet, the length of her dark hair a disheveled mess. Hans can see the petite curve of a breast where her blouse has been undone.

Should kill her too. It’s the sensible thing to do.

He wonders if Murphy would.

“…Well?” Hans drawls as callously as he might, gesturing her away with a careless turn of his wrist.

She clutches her blouse together and runs crying to the doors.

-

The wound doesn't offend anywhere near so badly after Hans washes the parted skin with water and wraps Murphy's throat in poultice soaked cloth. To no more see the rent flesh is a relief, even if one false. Out of sight out of mind is hardly an appropriate adage to apply towards infection and fever.

Murphy’s hair is still a mess, dirty and made stiff with dried sweat. Each strand is greasy against Hans’ fingers, every tangle held fast with bits of forest filth. Perhaps it is a waste of time to pluck away grass and clods of mud. Surely it is, but Hans finds himself reluctant to stop.  There’s something familiar… something soothing, in tending to Murphy like this. To be allowed, or perhaps only given the opportunity, to appreciate the firm cut of his jaw and the rather blunt end of nose.

They did this so long ago. Murphy content to laze away an evening with Hans’ fingers running through his thick hair, the whole of him so loose and at ease in a bath made of barrels and melted snow.

If only Hans could do the same for him again.

He can’t, but for now they’re alright. As alright as they can be, with no shelter and little prospect of anything better in sight.

They’ve coin, at least. Even if only a little. Much of what Hans managed from pawning the priestess' gold and jewels went for medicine. He spent the most on a chalky elderlyfe poultice fashioned by a woman with scales inked into her skin, and got a tonic for fever from a stall outside an apothecary. Didn’t have time to barter for more, nor the courage.

That they hadn’t found him…that Hans escaped from that covetous little town alive…

It doesn’t bear thinking on. Not right now, when Murphy begins to shudder under his hand.

He starts to cough again. A quiet tremble that builds in his chest before gurgling from his throat in haggard barks of sound. When he’s done Hans takes what left of the tonic and props up Murphy’s head. Perhaps he should have bought more. “Come now,” he murmurs, easing another swallow down a too stubborn throat. “The more you have now the less you’ll have to drink when conscious.” He smiles some, thinking back to the tundra. Can’t imagine Murphy will be any less a child about this sickness than he was the last.

As quickly as it’d spawned, Hans’ smile fades away.

When will that nightmare place of pain and cold stop being something he looks back on fondly?

When will this new life, this existence post-Siberia, be something worthwhile? When will Hans stop waking every morning without wondering why his heart didn’t just stop in the night?

-

Murphy’s more muddled than he remembers ever being.

Golden light glows on the surrounding tree trunks. Can’t see the sky or any of the horizon, but it must be evening. No other reason for a fire to be crackling before him in a ring of turned dirt. His feet are near enough to feel the heat. It's too warm, but Murphy’s not got the energy to get away. All of him is too warm. It's like someone dry roasted him in an oven and left him down in the coals to bide the time till dinner.

Stomach hurts, now that he thinks about it. A sort of sick ache that spells the same hunger as has been dogging his heels for days. Maybe more like weeks. So hard to be sure when Murphy feels like he just came up from a three-day bender.

Something soft beneath him. Softer than dirt at least. Enough to be grateful for, though Murphy’s still not got much idea where he’s at.

“Well,” a self-satisfied voice mutters above him, “I see you’ve decided to be conscious.”

Relief stabs Murphy’s chest and lifts the hair on the back of his neck. Cools him for a moment. But only a moment, that same sick heat spreading all through him a second later. So much that he musters the strength to pull his feet back from the fire. He means to say something, anything at all, but everything just _hurts_.

Raspy nonsense finally comes out, a breathy groan caught up in his aching throat.

But the heat doesn't last. Something gets laid across his brow. Cool and sudden and wet, and all more than enough to make Murphy go back slack in the grass.

“Better?”

Murphy absolutely loves this man.

He hums an answer as he opens his eye, though the sight of Hans’ spreading smile is worth putting the effort towards something more substantial. “I’d reckon.”

The words are barely loud enough to be counted, but Hans just snorts and tucks his hanging bangs behind a freckled ear. They spill back forward almost so soon as he's done. "And I reckon that I've not met more foolish a man in all my life.”

Murphy almost chuckles, but his throat aches too much to let it out. "Didn't mean to let it get that bad."

Hans rolls his pretty green eyes, but he doesn’t quit running his fingers through Murphy’s hair. “I've come to accept the fact that you're not to be trusted with your own health.”

And Hans might have the right of it. Murphy’s not so proud as to think otherwise.

He’s also not too proud to not take what blame as is his to shoulder. "... Didn't mean to let Seamus get at you either."

Hans' fingers slow, his eyes as hard and sharp as a viper.

Just shakes his head then and looks out at the fire. Keeps up the long stroke of his hand though, nothing in the world quite so nice. "You aren't his keeper."

Maybe not anymore.

Murphy sighs and kicks his feet back out straight. Might be too warm again soon, but he can't quite stand the chill of keeping away. Probably got holes in both his boots and none of the fixings for a patch. "Still had no business bothering you.”

There's a sound like humor, but Hans isn't smiling when Murphy glances up, "I doubt he's had business bothering any number of people."

Much as he hates him, much as he'd like to rip Seamus' fingers off one by one and shove them down his fucking throat, Murphy can't quite stomach hearing his brother accused of… of being like that. Might've always been more randy than a bull in spring, but he'd never just gone and forced someone in the chance that he hadn't been able to convince them to take a tumble. Not that Murphy'd ever seen at least. His brother is a goddamn fool, is petty and dishonest and almost as rotten a _traitor_ as Rider, but he... he's not mean.  Not mean enough to just hold somebody down and have at like that.

But what else could he possibly have been doing that night in Chethiki?

Not too sure why he even wants to try defending his brother’s character, but Murphy swallows the insistence down. Nothing good would come of it. “... I told him to stay off you.”

Hans glances at Murphy again, something considering in the level of his eyes, “Have you always had to curb his baser instincts?” Murphy chews the question long enough that Hans finally just waves it off, firelight flashing in his eyes as he looks away. “Doesn’t matter. It isn’t as though I blame you.”

Murphy can’t really help how the whole of him tightens, even his voice a bit thick, “You don’t?”

Hans is finally smiling again when he looks back down, eyes creased like he just heard a joke, “Of course not, Murphy, good lord.” Says it so easy, so quick. Like he’s really not got a single hard feeling about that night, about getting pawed at just because Murphy’d been fool enough to let it happen. “I couldn’t possibly blame you.”

Throat is still tight, but that might just be the ache that’s yet pushing through, "Doesn’t mean you shouldn't."

Hans sighs but his smile doesn’t fade. He just leans forward enough that Murphy can’t see the sky past his freckles. His hand doesn’t quit, every stroke still so light and sweet as summer, “I don’t blame you for a single thing.” His eyes are soft, softer than Murphy’s ever seen. “I never did.”

That-, goddamn, but that gets him _deep_.

Sharp and sudden. A knife to the gut with none of the blood. It’s impossible to think that Hans can’t be lying, that he’s not got even the least bit of hate brewing inside him for every vile thing Murphy’s ever let happen to him. Can’t even imagine how bad his lot was after Mihailovitch forced them apart up north, but Murphy knows better than to think Hans made it easy on himself. Not with the way he looks, the way he talks, the way he got used to being warm and fed and clothed with nothing being demanded of him in turn.

And despite all that, despite every bit of hurt he’s borne since Murphy walked away from him on the tundra…

Despite that Hans doesn’t hate him.

Hans doesn’t even blame him.

His chest is still tight and his throat aches with the worst sort of sick heat, but Murphy’s not felt this light in time out of mind.

Almost like he can take a full breath.

“I just don’t get you.”

Not what Murphy meant to say, but it hardly matters when Hans’ lips spread in the brightest grin the world’s ever seen. “Don’t you though?”

If only.

Be nice if he did, but Murphy’s so goddamn sure he never will. “Don’t think anybody gets you.”

Hans’ grin fades, but not so much that he looks put out. More amused maybe, with his eyes all lidded and low. “Is that so terrible?”

Nothing in the world nicer than seeing him like this. With light in face and humor on his tongue. Murphy might be as dirty as a beggar and just as poor, but he's got something no one else can claim. Something Murphy wouldn't give up for gold or jewels or even his own brother. He's got a man with hair redder than the deepest ruby, a man with eyes that would put a cavern of gems to shame. A man that always finds a way to bring them back up out the dregs of this godawful life.

And maybe…

Maybe Murphy can find some way to keep him.

-

Two days pass before Murphy can consistently manage his feet. He stumbles and he cusses, as surly a creature as he ever is when again on the better side of health. He’ll mutter to himself like an old man as he unwraps the linen from his throat, and then carry on in such an endearingly petulant way when Hans decides everything to still be in order.

Hans actually bares his ill mood with far more grace than he’d expected of himself. He even holds his tongue when Murphy complains endlessly about the elderlyfe and only truly insists on seeing the wound once at night before they sleep.

A few days more and they continue south at less of a slog. The skies are nevermore blue, but beset by grey clouds and unseasonal winds. They spend three nights more beneath the chilling stars before a settlement breaks the stormy horizon.

The streets are muddied and puddles reflect the grey sky. The rain quits only to begin again moments later. This place is nothing like the one Hans braved before. Grim isn’t the exact word he means, but nothing else quite fits. The homes are squat, the market nothing but some empty stalls lining a cobblestone square. There’s some businesses, most with curtains drawn and signs covered. He doesn’t see a single cart on the street, not even a stray dog.

It’s just a dreary little place that Hans can’t wait to leave.

But then he sees an inn.

There’s light in the windows and the smell of something being roasted on the air. Something that will surely be so much better than the charred rhubarb and stolen loaf of bread they’ve been rationing for a week. The loaf that ran out this morning, actually.

They’d planned on buying more here, a hope now wrecked by the absent market.

Perhaps Hans spends overlong staring at the hazy waves of heat coming from the inn’s chimney, because Murphy turns to him with something that must be disappointment in his eye, “You want to?”

Hans hates himself a little more.

The place is mostly deserted despite the rain, and manned by a pair of ebony skinned sisters that give them room and board for all but Hans’ last coin.

He and Murphy pass a quiet moment on a pair of stools at the furthest extent of the bar while they await their meals. Hans is not excited at the prospect of nourishment anymore, but maybe he is only tired. Or too intent on the thought of sleeping off the ground and getting out of these damp clothes.

Or maybe it is that his pocket carries so much less weight, and all because he couldn’t disguise the naked yearning in his eyes.

His appetite returns when they are served beef and bread, both drowned in a deluge of thick gravy that detracts sharply from the appeal. Hans doesn’t complain. He's not sure he even knows how anymore. He eats slowly enough to allow his stomach to recall what real food feels like and wonders if maybe he could find work in the next town they find. Maybe Murphy could too, if his throat doesn’t take a turn for the worse.

Maybe they could even find a little shack to squat in for a bit.

Hans isn’t quite sure why he even bothers trying to be optimistic anymore.

“Done?”

Murphy’s plate is far cleaner than Hans’ own when he looks up. There’s not even a spoonful of gravy left. Sensible, that. Far more sensible than Hans is, with only his beef entirely gone. “Suppose we ought head up then-.”

One of the sisters clears her throat behind them and says something too quick to understand.

Hans looks back over his shoulder and attempts politeness, “Pardon?”

The woman gestures away to the right, her other hand never stilling as she scribbles in a ledger. “Water heated. Baths take.” She glances up with narrow eyes, “Sheets clean.”

Oh.

“…Our thanks,” Hans offers, sliding off his stool with less enthusiasm than he should. To be granted the leave to bathe is not something to scorn, no matter how his feet ache and pulse. Murphy follows him without comment, his shadow so forever broad and long where it precedes Hans down the hall. There’s a curtain at the end, cool to the touch when they pass through.

The hall beyond is lit with hanging lanterns, though not the sort with faeries. The warm light is…almost too much. Too revealing, as if Hans is visible in more ways than he’s lately been.

Foolish thoughts, meaningless in all ways. Far less worthy of attention than the dozen doors lining the hall, all but two of them closed. The heat is so much more evident between these walls. Enough so that Murphy is already shrugging out of his coat. He steps abreast of one of the open rooms and peers in, and then side steps enough to do the same to the next one, “Think they’re both for us?”

Hans can’t imagine they are, but he’s willing to take the chance. Or maybe he is just too tired to care. “Seems so.” He hesitates to step forth, but forces himself past the unease. Murphy won’t be that far away, within calling distance if anything-.

Good Lord, nothing is going to _happen_. There is no one here, no one in this scrap of a town that would even bother with them on a dismal evening like this.

 “…Enjoy,” he finally offers, before entering the first chamber and shutting the door.

He is so immediately assaulted by warmth and steam that his nerves fall apart like sugar in tea. 

There’s a pulley-activated waterfall in the far corner, a steaming bucket already fit into the harness above. The floorboards directly under are spaced slats, a drain likely in existence beneath. A crude reinvention of the plumbing seen in grander locales. A fact that does nothing to dilute Hans’ new excitement, his travel stained clothes falling swiftly to the floor as he notes the inset bath, the water so clear and clean.

There’s even a cloth and some soap when he steps near, those aside a long-handled razor.

All an extravagance so very far from his every expectation.

To be shaven is a glory that Hans is powerless to resist. Water and soap are so exquisitely foreign against his flesh, dirt and worse forced free as Hans works suds as thoroughly into his long stubble as he can. The razor isn’t sharp enough to make the task swift, but that hardly matters. Time is the only commodity Hans has in excess, no one and nothing dependent on his presence. 

Scrape after scrape remove the dark mass of his hated beard, the coarse bristles flicked to the slats below. Satisfaction claimed through an act so simple. There is no mirror, no way but touch to make sure he’s gotten every unwanted strand. A boon, little that Hans desires less than seeing the wreck that has become of his once acceptable features. Without his beard he likely looks waifish. Thin and sickly, the sort more likely to carry disease than ability.

He's never been so honest with himself as he has since being turned aside by whores.

Soap burns his nose as he scrubs, the once familiar scent so inescapably strange. Almost too intense. But Hans is not fool enough to let this opportunity pass him by. Soon enough the suds run down his legs darkened with dust and dirt. The cloth’s abrasion is a remarkable pleasure, as if Hans is stripping layers of himself with every pass, something far better left behind.

Nonsense, Hans as thoroughly foul and tainted as a being ever was. He’s known that fact too long to be made low by it, nothing but contentment surging within when he pulls the lever and still steaming water cascades overhead.

Chin tucked to his chest, hair hanging past his nose, he can watch the dirt and suds disappear as water washes them from the slats.

If only he could be washed away as easily.

The air chills his flesh when Hans steps away from the waterfall, though not long enough to know true discomfort. Soon enough he slides into the imbedded basin, wet warmth a glory to be surrounded in. Hans submerges himself, lets water envelop him entirely.  

This could almost be the ocean.

If only it were. Grand waves rolling overhead, the sun striking down in pale shards of light, salt in the very air when Hans surfaced. There is nothing so distinct, so known and unmistakable, but still he could pretend. He might even imagine that he and Murphy never trekked east after leaving the tundra. Instead they would have moved towards the coast, no company but each other. Poor and ragged, but that wouldn’t have mattered. Not really. Survival is the highest accomplishment Hans has known in so very long. Pathetic, but still fact. Still more than enough, so long as Murphy was content to exist alongside him.

Unlikely, but that too is fact. A long-known knowledge, that Hans is not enough to keep Murphy’s attention indefinitely. There is not a man in all the world that so relentlessly bleeds obligation, nothing more that can really give reason for why Seamus was allowed to accompany them so far. Even before he upset Murphy’s trust there could have been no love between them, no bonds beyond that required by kin.

Hans hasn't known those same bonds in years. Maybe never did at all.

Worthless thoughts. As worthless as Hans, but he can be rid of them even if he can’t manage the same with himself. It is beyond easy to lose the ebb of his own mind when so surrounded by warmth, this indulgence worth every meal that could have been offered instead. He might think otherwise later, but there is nothing so wonderful as to be clean again. Hans drags fingers through his hair, beyond contented that his nails don’t catch on grit or dirt, every strand as washed and fresh as they could ever hope to be.

Strange how this makes him feel alive. How it makes the departure from Siberia seem real.

-

It is an irritant to be dressed again in his damp clothing, but Hans has no recourse. Even only in his trousers and undershirt he still feels some measure defiled, the faintness of old sweat so staunch a deterrent. The scent lingers even as he walks, though perhaps Hans is just sensitive to it after re-acclimating himself to the clean freshness of a soapy lather.

Their room is on the second floor, and warm despite the lack of a hearth or brazier. He doesn’t have much chance to gauge the accommodations, not when the other sister is already there and muttering something at him that may or may not be foreign.

“Madam,” Hans greets, though she does not return one. Instead she snaps her fingers and gestures, a broad sweep of her dark hand towards Hans’ body that he has no idea how to decipher. “I-, I’m not sure I understand-.”

Impossible, when she then tugs at the collar of his shirt as if she would remove the garment herself.

 _“Madam,”_ Hans repeats, his voice pitched in a surging uncertainty. He jerks back from her grasp, collar clutched tight to his throat.

Oh, what a brilliant whore he would’ve made.

She speaks again, a barrage of syllables that mean absolutely nothing. She keeps gesturing, at Hans, at the bed, and finally just makes a pantomime of scrubbing something up and down a washboard.

…She means to do Hans’ laundry?

Maybe that’s why the bill was so terribly high.

“Of course,” Hans hastens to agree, lest she decide to change her mind. “I-, don’t exactly have anything else to-.”

The women _flings_ a towel in his face.

And then she just stands there. Waiting.

Good Lord. Hans barely keeps from snapping, “Could you at least turn around?”

She does, eventually. After flapping a hand, impatience in the click of her tongue.

His face heats, but Hans obeys. Soon he is covered in nothing but a too short towel, the cloth barely knotted against his hip before the woman turns back. She tisks, not that Hans has any idea why. Another click of her tongue and she retreats with his clothing, the door pulled shut before he can say another word.

Maybe she means to go bully Murphy the same.

But fine. Let her do as she likes. Hans can’t even care. Not when he is fed, when he is clean and shaved and so much more a man than he has felt in time out of mind. Oh, and look at that bed! Look at those sheets, those _blankets_. When’s the last time Hans even saw a bedframe, let alone slept atop one?

He’s so excited, so very pleased, that he doesn’t think to move from before the door until it bursts open upon him.

Hans trips, but he’s caught by the most familiar hands in the world.

“Shit!” Murphy manages to keep them both standing, his fingers so warm and firm around Hans’ arm. His wet hair is dark and spiked, drops of water clinging high on his forehead. One trails down the aggravated furrow of his brow, “Looking to get yourself knocked down?”

Hans is helpless to resist the sudden curve of his lips, “Not in particular, no.” It’s been so very long since he’s seen this creature without his layers of dust and grit. Murphy’s beard hasn’t disappeared, but is soft when Hans has the sudden inclination to put a hand against it.

Murphy goes still, and stays that way when Hans decides to reach further, hooking his patch with a finger and sliding the wretched thing off. “Thought you didn’t like wearing this?”

Murphy swallows, both lids dropping as he blinks, “Don’t.”

Ridiculous man. Hans lets the patch fall from his fingers and drops his eyes to Murphy’s chest, where dark strands of hair curl beneath the opening of an unfamiliar shirt. Not as soft as the stubble, when Hans decides to put his face against the mahogany curls. He’s never been so near, near enough to listen to Murphy’s heartbeat while he reaches past and pushes the door shut. “Then there's no reason to.”

This close he can feel Murphy swallow, can feel every motion of his lungs and the quickening beat of his heart.  “…Guess not.”

Strange, how being clean and nearly bare forces the ancient dregs of Hans’ courage to emerge. He presses his hands against Murphy’s biceps and draws them slowly down. Mapping muscle by touch, feeling the evidence of such prevalent strength. This could be folly. Could ruin him entirely. All truths, but Hans cannot help but dare. “Unless you’ve some reason, of course.” He circles his fingers around Murphy’s thick wrists and takes a step back. “Don’t let me force you if that’s the case.”

Murphy follows, something wonderfully anticipatory in the way he clenches his jaw, “It’s not.” His skin is so fresh where Hans holds him, all of him so clean and effortlessly handsome. There is strength and such endless endurance in every aspect of his body and mind, a steadiness Hans is far too enthralled with to envy. "Hate it," Murphy continues, a leisure in his steps that forces Hans to slow his own. "Burn the blasted thing if I could."

"Why don't you?" Hans can’t think of anything more satisfying.

Almost can’t, that is.

But Murphy just shakes his head, water yet glistening on his brow, “Just be a waste.”

Hardly.

Hans can’t argue before the mattress hits the back of his legs. He hasn't even a moment to question, both of Murphy's wide palms taking hold of his either side and lifting. He is too large to be as gentle as he forever manages, such unnecessary attention wasted in setting Hans back against the bedding before climbing after. The give beneath them is so strange, ages since the last time Hans even touched something with a proper frame and mattress. He has the slightest concern for it at present though, the bedding so inconsequential when Murphy’s heat makes his flesh this criminally eager.

Something that flares higher when he is finally caught in a kiss, long stubble pressing against his chin and above his lips. Hans doesn’t fight it, couldn't possibly, just presses back hard, gripping Murphy’s face on either side, forcing their bodies closer when he hooks his ankles on the back of those broad thighs and tugs forward.

Murphy doesn't hesitate, not even for a second. He moves close, a heavy hand behind Hans’ head, fingers tight in the mass of his hair. The other hand reaches, fire trailing as a firm palm strokes down his flank, curling so tightly against the hard sharpness of Hans’ hip.

Oh, but Hans wants to be bare, to have Murphy’s exquisite hands touch his every freckle and scar, to be stroked and pet as if a treasure.

Pitiful, but he is too accustomed to that fact to truly care, to give thought to a single thing that is not this man’s touch and heat.

Hans must feel him. Has to know the breadth and sensation of this dear man’s skin against his own, against his hands and lips. The buttons offer bare resistance, all of Murphy’s chest soon within reach. He’s just so mammoth, so warm and firm everywhere Hans presses his fingers, curling them now in the damp curls of hair low on Murphy’s stomach.

The flesh there twitches, and Murphy buries his face in Hans’ wet hair.

He makes a noise, something so deep and dark as to make an almost forgotten heat sweep up Hans’ spine. He presses up on his heels to arch against the length of Murphy’s body, satisfied so wonderfully when every hard plane of muscle moves back against him.

It’s been so very long since he’s been so willingly close to someone, since he’s wanted the attention of another so fiercely.

There’s nothing shy about Murphy, breaths heavy as he puts a knee between Hans’ legs, grinding forward with such steady determination. His hands grip and slide like they’ve touched Hans’ skin a thousand times, so inescapably present. The towel doesn’t last. Soon Hans can revel in the heady heat above and the foreign softness below, both Murphy and the bedding shifting against his bare skin in such indecent ways.

Hans catches Murphy’s lips again and almost can’t handle how he’s cradled near. One mammoth arm curls around his waist while the other slips beneath his head. He can feel Murphy’s fingers fist in his hair, and the tight dominion of his other hand again against his hip. There is no escaping him. Not his touch, not his warmth. Certainly not the hard line of his swollen cock.

Terrifying and necessary in equal measure. Hans wants, he wants so _badly_ , but what if this is it?

What if he’s doomed himself, by giving in to this selfish need? Hans could have survived without knowing this man’s touch. He’s not sure the same will be true, when Murphy inevitably walks away.

No. No, those are fears for another night. For a time when Hans isn’t held fast by arms so very-.

But then he isn’t. Murphy’s weight leaves, the breadth of his shoulders no longer felt by the time his intentions are obvious.

Hans reaches with both arms, fingers folding through the thick hair at Murphy’s nape, “Where are you going?”

It’s an anxious question, uncertain and strained.

The skin around Murphy’s eye creases before he looks away. "…Not about to make you-. "

"You're not making me do anything," Hans rushes out, almost frantic. Desperate. “Not a thing, Murphy, _please.”_

“But…” Why is he tense? Why does he play at hesitation? There’s such undeniable interest in his face, in his lidded eye, in the warm weight of his cock where it presses against Hans' thigh. “but Seamus-.”

Seamus _nothing_. “You aren’t him,” Hans insists at once. He-, oh, he can’t even look at Murphy’s face. He tucks himself near and turns against the side of Murphy’s throat. He can still smell the elderlyfe they ran out of two days ago. “You don’t sound like him, don’t act like him. You don’t even _look_ like him.” And Hans can’t bear the thought, he hates to let even a single recollection of that terrible night spoil the promise of this one, but-, “You don’t feel anything like him.”

 _Please don't go_ , Hans would whisper, but his throat has swollen closed.

The moments are long and terrifying before Murphy drops back down on his elbows. He covers Hans so completely again, the feel of him absolutely everywhere.

A mountain in a man, so together and endlessly strong. So silent too, nothing really to be said anymore as his lips move slowly against Hans' own.

Oh, but Hans could speak of him for days. The feel of him, the solid breadth of his body. Hans can’t get over it, has never so _desperately_ wanted like he wants with Murphy. This is the act done right, every touch drawing fire, the pressure of Murphy’s lips stoking him ever higher. He writhes against the thigh between his legs and just can’t catch his breath when Murphy scrapes teeth down the edge of his jaw.

He’s no idea where Murphy procures oil. No idea when he even slicked his fingers.

One presses in, swift enough to startle. Hans cannot help but grow tight, his breath held like a virgin until he remembers to breathe. “I’m fine,” he whispers, kissing the sweet concern from Murphy’s lips before he can ask. “So incredibly fine.”

Murphy must believe him. He begins to move, edging in and out with constant pressure.

This is known but still somehow not. Hans didn’t lie to the whores. He's known the velvet depths of a woman and the indomitable thickness of a man. A sailor might leave port a virgin, but as one he will not return. That’s just the way of the sea, a way of life that Hans was too proud to accept as enough. If he’d stayed a sailor…if glory hadn’t whispered in his ear…if petty ambitions hadn’t spawned in his heart and made him forsake the sea…

Meaningless regrets. Hans cannot return to the waters, at least not as he is. He isn’t sure he’d even want to.

He doesn’t know what he wants at all.

Not true. Not entirely.

He wants Murphy, and all Murphy is. The heavy strokes of his palm and the bright blue humor of his eye. The thick luxury of his hair and the impossible endurance of his body. How can a man bear so much? How did he survive the tundra, when worked as he was? How did he ever find the courage to break away? To plunge out into that dreaded white and forge his own path?

How is it that Murphy, that this wonderful unbelievable man, saw Hans and thought him something worth keeping alive?

Is it love, that there is nothing Hans wouldn’t give of himself to be forever at this man’s side?

And maybe he can be. If they do this, if Murphy feels even a sliver of the euphoria that Hans does, then…

Then maybe he’ll let Hans stay.

If it’s enough, if Hans is enough, if the fire building between them burns as hotly as Hans imagines, maybe Murphy won’t leave him again. They could stay like this always, until the very sun burned itself to dust and ash.

It could right now, for all Hans cares. His breath is fast again. Shallow. Murphy takes three fingers out of his ass and holds Hans’ legs wide to either side.

And then he presses in. So slow. Such grand pressure.

“Mm,” there's such satisfaction in that one deep sound, like sinking into Hans’ body is the height of accomplishment. “Long have I thought on this.”

Hans can’t resist the curve of his lips, such strange euphoria taking hold even though he knows that he is nothing but a conquest, “Then sooner should you have acted.”

But Murphy just shakes his head, presses his lips to the sharp edge of Hans’ chin as the length of him retreats, “Better here. Clean, warm, a bed that’s more than scraps on the floorboards.” He presses back deep, a slowness that drags in slickened perfection. “Not as much as you deserve, but better than we had.”

There is so little that Hans deserves in life. Surely not the regard of this sweet man, not the so often furrowed concern of his brow or the heady strength of his arm. Certainly not the fierce wrath of his protection.

Oh, but Hans can’t be away anymore. Not right now. Not ever. He presses forward and hides again against the broadness of Murphy’s still healing throat, clutching him as tight as his arms will allow. Hans is so warm, so very _enthralled_ , and still about to cry.

He has never loved like this. So total, so suffocatingly entire.

Murphy lets him near. He presses kisses to his hair and lets go one leg to wrap around Hans’ waist. Nearly as silent in pleasure as he is in life, and as wonderfully broad as Hans had long imagined. There is such a firmness to him, a constancy of strength and might. His shoulders flex beneath Hans’ clutch and his fingers grip so sure and strong. His cock is slick and growing slicker every moment, the slap of their skin so indecent. Hans doesn’t bother touching himself. He’d rather pet through Murphy’s hair and memorize the glorious feel of his skin.

But Murphy moves them, leaning forward more on his knees. Hans lets him go and sinks back into the blankets. His eyes no longer burn and every thrust just _ripples_ up his spine. Murphy mouths at the side of Hans’ knee, scraping his teeth like an animal staking claim. Everything is exquisitely right, an inescapable build, a furious heat that grows so high.

Such exquisite heat that Hans’ can’t but suck in a sudden breath, the whole of him winding tight.

Murphy must notice, lips curving in a bare smile. He leans down further, his beard a startling softness in the midst of such intensity and fire. When he speaks his voice is as deep as the ocean, “That?”

 _“That,”_ Hans agrees in a breathy murmur, hands sliding once more down Murphy’s skin, redness trailing from the pressure of his fingers. He is beyond gone, everything in him on the edge, so-, so inescapably _close_ -. “That, that-,” he can’t even hope to keep it all in, toes curling, such fire up his spine as Murphy holds his legs further apart, the slap of their bodies beyond decadent, so loud, so-, good Lord, so immeasurably _satisfying_ -, “th-that, I can’t-.”

A wasted warning, as Hans then quivers in the most glorious sort of fire.

-

When Hans comes back from the stardust behind his eyes he is not alone.

Murphy isn’t between his legs anymore, but to the side. His cock rests against the outside of Han’s thigh, spent and growing soft. Murphy won’t stop kissing him. His forehead, his shoulder, the arch of his collarbone, a constant pressure of such soft affection. Hans can barely stand it, each touch chiseling at his heart. He hasn’t the patience for affection, is so far past the bounds of fondness.

Truths all, but he is so beyond incapable of denying Murphy even a single thing.

He’s been incapable forever really.

Since the frozen north, and even after his flesh forgot the insistence to flinch every time Murphy came near. To see his eye crease in satisfaction, in _pleasure,_ is something so incredibly dear to behold. To be an instrument of that pleasure is…it is more than Hans can name.

Oh, but how far his dreams have sunken.

Once he would have spun the world on his finger, and now he can imagine nothing grander than knowing the glory of Murphy’s touch for the rest of his days.

He should be bitter. Sickened and appalled.

Hans isn’t, not that he really cares to wonder why.

“What?”

Hans blinks and glances up to focus on Murphy’s broad face, “Pardon?”

It's a returned strangeness to see both of Murphy’s eyes, or one and then the other's lack. “What’re you thinking about so hard?”

“…Nothing important,” Hans murmurs, smiling for no reason he can articulate. He would usually lie, but Murphy’s curiosity always seems to bait his honesty. “Things I wanted. Things I want…even if they are things I know I can’t have.”

Murphy considers him for a quiet moment, “And what do you want?”

It doesn’t really matter. Any and all of Hans’ desires are never a concern, always inconsequential in the face of the world.

That fact, even if the warmth of Murphy’s gaze could make him imagine otherwise.

Hans has to shut his eyes before they begin to grow wet again. He exhales in stuttered defeat as a broad hand sweeps back the damp fall of his bangs. “…I just want us to be left alone.”

Warmth bathes his face when Murphy exhales, his hand stroking so soft. So inescapably gentle. “Someday.” As gentle as the kiss he presses beside Hans’ burning eyes, “Don’t know when…but someday.”


End file.
